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MI:    M(T>KK.:-'IT    I-    BO    LOKG    BHT01    Wl    TALKED 


THE  STORY  OF 
WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

BY 

KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS   BY 
H.    M.    BRETT 


TORONTO 
WILLIAM    BRIGGS 

BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON    M1KFL1N   COMPANY 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,   1913,    BY    KATE   DOUGLAS    R1GGS 
ALL    RIGHTS   RKSBRVED 

Published  October  IQJ 


TO  MY  HUSBAND 


'          \< 
/  .^  v  >* 


CONTENTS 

SPRING 

I.   SACO  WATER 
II.   THE  SISTERS 10 

III.  DEACON  BAXTER'S  WIVES     .  .19 

IV.  SOMETHING  OF  A  HERO     .  27 
V.   PATIENCE  AND  IMPATIENCE  .                 .41 

VI.   A  Kiss       ...  53 

VII.   WHAT  DREAMS  MAY  COME     .  .64 

SUMMER 

VIII.   THE  JOINER'S  SHOP            ...  73 

IX.     Ci:i'HAS    SPEAKS 

X.   ON  TORT  HILL          .  91 

XI.   A  JUNE  SUNDAY    ...  .105 

XII.   THE  GREEN-EYED  MONSTER      .  117 

XIII.  HAYING-TIME         .  .128 

XIV.  UNCLE  BART  DISCOURSES           .  .        .       137 
XV.   IVORY'S  MOTHER           ...  .145 

XVI.  LOCKED  OUT       ....  155 

vii 


CONTENTS 


AUTUMN 

XVII.   A  BRACE  OF  LOVERS        .        .  .        .171 

XVIII.  A  STATE  o'  MAINE  PROPHET  .        .       185 

XIX.   AT  THE  BRICK  STORE       .        .  .        .197 

XX.   THE  ROD  THAT  BLOSSOMED  .        .       211 

XXI.     LOIS   BURIES   HER   DEAD     ....    223 

XXII.   HARVEST-TIME 229 

XXIII.  AUNT  ABBY'S  WINDOW     ....  S37 

XXIV.  PHCEBE  TRIUMPHS          ....       245 
XXV.  LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM     .        .        .        .251 

WINTER 

XXVI.  A  WEDDING-RING         ....       269 

XXVII.  THE  CONFESSIONAL  .        .        .        .278 

XXVIII.  PATTY  is  SHOWN  THE  DOOR         .        .       287 

XXIX.   WAITSTILL  SPEAKS  HER  MIND          .        .  296 

XXX.   A  CLASH  OF  WILLS      ....       303 

XXXI.   SENTRY  DUTY 311 

XXXII.   THE  HOUSE  OF  AARON         ...       821 

XXXIII.  AARON'S  ROD 332 

XXXIV.  THE  DEACON'S  WATERLOO   ...       345 
XXXV.  Two  HEAVENS  .  .  360 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

ME  MORE;  IT  is  so  LONG  SINCE  WE  TALKED 
TOGETHER"  (p.  97) Frontispiece 

"WELL,  THERE  AIN'T  COIN*  TO  BE  NO  MORE  ARGY- 

FYIN'!" 44 

"TELL  ME  IF  IT  WILL  HELP  YOU;  I  WILL  TRY  TO  UN 
DERSTAND"        134 

"PUT  DOWN  THAT  WHIP,  FATHER,  OR  I'LL  TAKE  IT 

.    290 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 
SPRING 


THE  STORY  OF 
WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

i 

SACO    WATER 

FAR,  far  up,  in  the  bosom  of  New  Hampshire's 
granite  hills,  the  Saco  has  its  birth.  As  the  moun 
tain  rill  gathers  strength  it  takes 

"  Through  Bartlett's  vales  its  tuneful  way, 
Or  hides  in  Conway's  fragrant  brakes 
Retreating  from  the  glare  of  day." 

Now  it  leaves  the  mountains  and  flows  through 
"green  Fryeburg's  woods  and  farms."  In  the 
course  of  its  frequent  turns  and  twists  and  bends, 
it  meets  with  many  another  stream,  and  sends  it , 
fuller  and  stronger,  along  its  rejoicing  way.  When 
it  has  journeyed  more  than  a  hundred  miles  and 
is  nearing  the  ocean,  it  greets  the  Great  Ossi- 
pee  River  and  accepts  its  crystal  tribute.  Then, 
in  its  turn,  the  Little  Ossipee  joins  forces,  and 
the  river,  now  a  splendid  stream,  flows  onward 
to  Bonny  Eagle,  to  Moderation  and  to  Salmon 
Falls,  where  it  dashes  over  the  dam  like  a  young 

3 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Niagara  and  hurtles*  in  a  foamy  torrent,  through 
the  ragged  defile  cut  between  lofty  banks  of  solid 
rock. 

Widening  out  placidly  for  a  moment's  rest  in 
the  sunny  reaches  near  Pleasant  Point,  it  gathers 
itself  for  a  new  plunge  at  Union  Falls,  after  which 
it  speedily  merges  itself  in  the  bay  and  is  fresh 
water  no  more. 

At  one  of  the  falls  on  the  Saco,  the  two  little 
hamlets  of  Edgewood  and  Riverboro  nestle  to 
gether  at  the  bridge  and  make  one  village.  The 
stream  is  a  wonder  of  beauty  just  here;  a  mirror 
of  placid  loveliness  above  the  dam,  a  tawny,  roar 
ing  wonder  at  the  fall,  and  a  mad,  white-flecked 
torrent  as  it  dashes  on  its  way  to  the  ocean. 

The  river  has  seen  strange  sights  in  its  time, 
though  the  history  of  these  two  tiny  villages  is 
quite  unknown  to  the  great  world  outside.  They 
have  been  born,  waxed  strong,  and  fallen  almost 
to  decay  while  Saco  Water  has  tumbled  over 
the  rocks  and  spent  itself  in  its  impetuous  jour 
ney  to  the  sea. 

It  remembers  the  yellow-moccasined  Sokokis 
as  they  issued  from  the  Indian  Cellar  and  carried 
their  birchen  canoes  along  the  wooded  shore.  It 
was  in  those  years  that  the  silver-skinned  salmon 
leaped  in  its  crystal  depths;  the  otlrr  and  the 
beaver  crept  with  sleek  wet  skins  upon  its  shore; 

4 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  the  brown  deer  came  down  to  quench  his 
thirst  at  its  brink;  while  at  twilight  the  stealthy 
forms  of  bear  and  panther  and  wolf  were  mirrored 
in  its  glassy  surface. 

Time  sped;  men  chained  the  river's  turbulent 
forces  and  ordered  it  to  grind  at  the  mill.  Then 
houses  and  barns  appeared  along  its  banks, 
bridges  were  built,  orchards  planted,  forests 
changed  into  farms,  white-painted  meeting 
houses  gleamed  through  the  trees  and  distant 
bells  rang  from  their  steeples  on  quiet  Sunday 
mornings. 

All  at  once  myriads  of  great  hewn  logs  vexed  its 
downward  course,  slender  logs  linked  together  in 
long  rafts,  and  huge  logs  drifting  down  singly  or 
in  pairs.  Men  appeared,  running  hither  and 
thither  like  ants,  and  going  through  mysterious 
operations  the  reason  for  which  the  river  could 
never  guess;  but  the  mill-wheels  turned,  the  great 
saws  buzzed,  the  smoke  from  tavern  chimneys 
rose  in  the  air,  and  the  rattle  and  clatter  of  stage 
coaches  resounded  along  the  road. 

Now  children  paddled  with  bare  feet  in  the 
river's  sandy  coves  and  shallows,  and  lovers  sat 
on  its  alder-shaded  banks  and  exchanged  their 
vows  just  where  the  shuffling  bear  was  wont  to 
come  down  and  drink. 

The  Saco  could  remember  the  "cold  year," 

5 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

when  there  was  a  black  frost  every  month  of  the 
twelve,  and  though  almost  all  the  corn  along  its 
shores  shrivelled  on  the  stalk,  there  were  two 
farms  where  the  vapor  from  the  river  saved  the 
crops,  and  all  the  seed  for  the  next  season  came 
from  the  favored  spot,  to  be  known  as  "Egypt" 
from  that  day  henceforward. 

Strange,  complex  things  now  began  to  happen, 
and  the  river  played  its  own  part  in  some  of  these, 
for  there  were  disastrous  freshets,  the  sudden 
breaking-up  of  great  jams  of  logs,  and  the  drown 
ing  of  men  who  were  engulfed  in  the  dark  whirl 
pool  below  the  rapids. 

Caravans,  with  menageries  of  wild  beasts, 
crossed  the  bridge  now  every  year.  An  infuriated 
elephant  lifted  the  side  of  the  old  Edgewood 
Tavern  barn,  and  the  wild  laughter  of  the  rois 
tering  rum-drinkers  who  were  tantalizing  the 
animals  floated  down  to  the  river's  edge.  The 
roar  of  a  lion,  tearing  and  chewing  the  arm  of  one 
of  the  bystanders,  and  the  cheers  of  the  throng 
wrhen  a  plucky  captain  of  the  local  militia  thrust 
a  stake  down  the  beast's  throat,  —  these  sounds 
displaced  the  former  war-whoop  of  the  Indians 
and  the  ring  of  the  axe  in  the  virgin  forests  along 
the  shores. 

There  were  days,  and  moonlight  nights,  too, 
when  strange  sights  and  sounds  of  quite  another 

0 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

nature  could  have  been  noted  by  the  river  as  it 
flowed  under  the  bridge  that  united  the  two  little 
villages. 

Issuing  from  the  door  of  the  Riverboro  Town 
House,  and  winding  down  the  hill,  through  the 
long  row  of  teams  and  carriages  that  lined  the 
roadside,  came  a  procession  of  singing  men  and 
singing  women.  Convinced  of  sin,  but  entranced 
with  promised  pardon;  spiritually  intoxicated  by 
the  glowing  eloquence  of  the  latter-day  prophet 
they  were  worshipping,  the  band  of  "Cochran- 
ites  "  marched  down  the  dusty  road  and  across  the 
bridge,  dancing,  swaying,  waving  handkerchiefs, 
and  shouting  hosannas. 

God  watched,  and  listened,  knowing  that  there 
would  be  other  prophets,  true  and  false,  in  the 
days  to  come,  and  other  processions  following 
them;  and  the  river  watched  and  listened  too,  as 
it  hurried  on  towards  the  sea  with  its  story  of  the 
present,  that  was  sometime  to  be  the  history  of 
the  past. 

When  Jacob  Cochrane  was  leading  his  over 
wrought,  ecstatic  band  across  the  river,  Waits! ill 
Baxter,  then  a  child,  was  watching  the  stran 
noisy  company  from  the  window  of  a  little 
brick  dwelling  on  the  top  of  the  Town-House 
Hill. 

Her  stepmother  stood  beside  her  with  a  young 

7 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

baby  in  her  arms,  but  when  she  saw  what  held 
the  gaze  of  the  child  she  drew  her  away,  saying: 
"We  must  n't  look,  Waitstill;  your  father  don't 
like  it!" 

"  Who  was  the  big  man  at  the  head,  mother?" 

"His  name  is  Jacob  Cochrane,  but  you  mustn't 
think  or  talk  about  him;  he  is  very  wicked." 

"He  doesn't  look  any  wickeder  than  the 
others,"  said  the  child.  "Who  was  the  man  that 
fell  down  in  the  road,  mother,  and  the  woman 
that  knelt  and  prayed  over  him?  Why  did  he  fall, 
and  why  did  she  pray,  mother?" 

"That  was  Master  Aaron  Boynton,  the  school 
master,  and  his  wife.  He  only  made  believe  to 
fall  down,  as  the  Cochranites  do;  the  way  they 
carry  on  is  a  disgrace  to  the  village,  and  that's 
the  reason  your  father  won't  let  us  look  at 
them." 

"I  played  with  a  nice  boy  over  to  Boyn ton's," 
mused  the  child. 

"That  was  Ivory,  their  only  child.  He  is  a 
good  little  fellow,  but  his  mother  and  father  will 
spoil  him  with  their  crazy  ways." 

"I  hope  nothing  will  happen  to  him,  for  I  love 
him,"  said  the  child  gravely.  "He  showed  me  a 
humming-bird's  nest,  the  first  ever  I  saw,  and  the 
littlest!" 

"Don't  talk  about  loving  him,"  chided  the 

8 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

woman.  "If  your  father  should  hear  you,  he'd 
send  you  to  bed  without  your  porridge." 

"Father  could  n't  hear  me,  for  I  never  speak 
when  he's  at  home,"  said  grave  little  Waitstill. 
"And  I'm  used  to  going  to  bed  without  my 
porridge." 


II 

THE    SISTERS 

THE  river  was  still  running  under  the  bridge,  but 
the  current  of  time  had  swept  Jacob  Cochrane 
out  of  sight,  though  not  out  of  mind,  for  he 
had  left  here  and  there  a  disciple  to  preach  his 
strange  and  uncertain  doctrine.  Waitstill,  the 
child  who  never  spoke  in  her  father's  presence, 
was  a  young  woman  now,  the  mistress  of  the 
house;  the  stepmother  was  dead,  and  the  baby  a 
girl  of  seventeen. 

The  brick  cottage  on  the  hilltop  had  grown  only 
a  little  shabbier.  Deacon  Foxwell  Baxter  still 
slammed  its  door  behind  him  every  morning  at 
seven  o'clock  and,  without  any  such  cheerful 
conventions  as  good-byes  to  his  girls,  walked 
down  to  the  bridge  to  open  his  store. 

The  day,  properly  speaking,  had  opened  when 
Waitstill  and  Patience  had  left  their  beds  at 
dawn,  built  the  fire,  fed  the  hens  and  turkeys,  and 
prepared  the  breakfast,  while  the  Deacon  was 
graining  the  horse  and  milking  the  cows.  Such 
minor  "chores"  as  carrying  water  from  the  well, 
splitting  kindling,  chopping  pine,  or  bringing 

10 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

wood  into  the  kitchen,  were  left  to  Waitstill,  who 
had  a  strong  back,  or,  if  she  had  not,  had  never 
been  unwise  enough  to  mention  the  fact  in  her 
father's  presence.  The  almanac  day,  however, 
which  opened  with  sunrise,  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  real  human  day,  which  always  began 
when  Mr.  Baxter  slammed  the  door  behind  him, 
and  reached  its  high  noon  of  delight  when  he  dis 
appeared  from  view. 

"He's  opening  the  store  shutters!"  chanted 
Patience  from  the  heights  of  a  kitchen  chair  by  the 
\v i udow.  "Now  he 's  taken  his  cane  and  beaten  off 
the  Boynton  puppy  that  was  sitting  on  the  steps 
as  usual,  —  I  don't  mean  Ivory's  dog"  (here  the 
girl  gave  a  quick  glance  at  her  sister),  "but  Rod 
man's  little  yellow  cur.  Rodman  must  have  come 
down  to  the  bridge  on  some  errand  for  Ivory. 
I -n't  it  odd,  when  that  dog  has  all  the  other 
store  steps  to  sit  upon,  he  should  choose  father's, 
when  every  bone  in  his  body  must  tell  him  how 
father  hates  him  and  the  whole  Boynton  family. " 

"Father  has  no  real  cause  that  I  ever  heard  of; 
but  some  dogs  never  know  when  they've  had 
enough  beating,  nor  some  people  either,"  said 
Waitstill,  speaking  from  the  pantry. 

"Don't  be  gloomy  when  it's  my  birthday,  Sis! 
-  Now  he's  opened  1  lie  door  and  kicked  the  cat! 
All  is  ready  for  business  at  the  Baxter  store." 

11 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"I  wish  you  were  n't  quite  so  free  with  your 
tongue,  Patty." 

"  Somebody  must  talk,"  retorted  the  girl,  jump 
ing  down  from  the  chair  and  shaking  back  her 
mop  of  red-gold  curls.  "I'll  put  this  hateful, 
childish,  round  comb  in  and  out  just  once  more, 
then  it  will  disappear  forever.  This  very  after 
noon  up  goes  my  hair!" 

:<  You  know  it  will  be  of  no  use  unless  you  braid 
it  very  plainly  and  neatly.  Father  will  take  no 
tice  and  make  you  smooth  it  down." 

"Father  has  n't  looked  me  square  in  the  face 
for  years;  besides,  my  hair  won't  braid,  and 
nothing  can  make  it  quite  plain  and  neat,  thank 
goodness!  Let  us  be  thankful  for  small  mercies, 
as  Jed  Morrill  said  when  the  lightning  struck  his 
mother-in-law  and  skipped  his  wife." 

"Patty,  I  will  not  permit  you  to  repeat  those 
tavern  stories ;  they  are  not  seemly  on  the  lips  of  a 
girl ! "  And  Waitstill  came  out  of  the  pantry  with 
a  shadow  of  disapproval  in  her  eyes  and  in  her 
voice. 

Patty  flung  her  arms  round  her  sister  tempes 
tuously,  and  pulled  out  the  waves  of  her  hair  so 
that  it  softened  her  face.  -  "I'll  be  good,"  she 
said,  "and  oh,  Waity!  let's  invent  some  sort  of 
cheap  happiness  for  to-day !  I  shall  never  be  sev 
enteen  again  and  we  have  so  many  troubles !  — 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Let's  put  one  of  the  cows  in  the  horse's  stall 
and  see  what  will  happen !  Or  let 's  spread  up  our 
beds  with  the  head  at  the  foot  and  put  the  chest 
of  drawers  on  the  other  side  of  the  room ;  or  let 's 
make  candy!  Do  you  think  father  would  miss 
the  molasses  if  we  only  use  a  cupful?  Could  n't 
we  strain  the  milk,  but  leave  the  churning  and 
the  dishes  for  an  hour  or  two,  just  once?  If  you 
say  *yes>  I  can  think  of  something  wonderful  to 
do!" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Waitstill,  relenting  at  the 
sight  of  the  girl's  eager,  roguish  face. 

"Pierce  my  ears! "  cried  Patty.  "  Say  you  will ! " 

"Oh!  Patty,  Patty,  I  am  afraid  you  are  given 
over  to  vanity !  I  daren't  let  you  wear  eardrops 
without  father's  permission." 

"Why  not?  Lots  of  church  members  wear 
them,  so  it  can't  be  a  mortal  sin.  Father  is 
against  all  adornments,  but  that's  because  he 
does  n't  want  to  buy  them.  You  've  always  said 
I  should  have  your  mother's  coral  pendants  when 
I  was  old  enough.  Here  I  am,  seventeen  to-day, 
and  Dr.  Perry  says  I  am  already  a  well-favored 
young  woman.  I  can  pull  my  hair  over  my  ears 
for  a  few  days  and  when  the  holes  are  all  made 
and  healed, even  father  cannot  make  me  fill  them 
up  u  ir.'i  i  n .  Besides,  I  '11  never  wear  the  earrings  at 
home!" 

13 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Oh!  my  dear,  my  dear!"  sighed  Waitstill, 
with  a  half -sob  in  her  voice.  "If  only  I  was  wise 
enough  to  know  how  we  could  keep  from  these 
little  deceits,  yet  have  any  liberty  or  comfort  in 
life!" 

"We  can't!  The  Lord  could  n't  expect  us  to 
bear  all  that  we  bear,"  exclaimed  Patty,  "  without 
our  trying  once  in  a  while  to  have  a  good  time 
in  our  own  way.  We  never  do  a  thing  that  we 
are  ashamed  of,  or  that  other  girls  don't  do  every 
day  in  the  week ;  only  our  pleasures  always  have 
to  be  taken  behind  father's  back.  It's  only  me 
that 's  ever  wrong,  anyway,  for  you  are  always 
an  angel.  It's  a  burning  shame  and  you  only 
twenty-one  yourself.  I  '11  pierce  your  ears  if  you 
say  so,  and  let  you  wear  your  own  coral  drops!" 

"No,  Patty;  I've  outgrown  those  longings 
years  ago.  When  your  mother  died  and  left 
father  and  you  and  the  house  to  me,  my  girlhood 
died,  too,  though  I  was  only  fourteen." 

"It  was  only  your  inside  girlhood  that  died," 
insisted  Patty  stoutly.  "The  outside  is  as  fresh 
as  the  paint  on  Uncle  Barty's  new  ell.  You  've  got 
the  loveliest  eyes  and  hair  in  Riverboro,  and  you 
know  it;  besides,  Ivory  Boynton  would  tell  you 
so  if  you  did  n't.  Come  and  bore  my  ears,  there's 
a  darling!" 

"Ivory  Boynton  never  speaks  a  word  of  my 
14 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

looks,  nor  a  word  that  father  and  all  the  world 
might  n't  hear."  And  Waitstill  flushed. 

"Then  it's  because  he's  shy  and  silent  and  has 
so  many  troubles  of  his  own  that  he  does  n't  dare 
say  anything.  When  my  hair  is  once  up  and 
the  coral  pendants  are  swinging  in  my  ears,  I 
shall  expect  to  hear  something  about  my  looks,  I 
can  tell  you.  Waity,  after  all,  though  we  never 
have  what  we  want  to  eat,  and  never  a  decent 
dress  to  our  backs,  nor  a  young  man  to  cross  the 
threshold,  I  would  n't  change  places  with  Ivory 
Boynton,  would  you?"  Here  Patty  swept  the 
hearth  vigorously  with  a  turkey  wing  and  added  a 
few  corn-cobs  to  the  fire. 

AVaitstill  paused  a  moment  in  her  task  of  bread- 
kneading.  "Well,"  she  answered  critically,  "at 
least  we  know  where  our  father  is. " 

"We  do,  indeed!  Wre  also  know  that  he  is 
thoroughly  alive!" 

"And  though  people  do  talk  about  him,  they 
can't  say  the  things  they  say  of  Master  Apron 
Boynton.  I  don't  believe  father  would  ever  run 
away  and  desert  us. " 

"I  fear  not,"  said  Patty.  "I  wish  the  angels 
would  put  the  idea  into  his  head,  though,  of 
course,  it  wouldn't  he  the  aii-vU;  they'd  be 
above  it.  It  would  have  lo  he  1  he 'Old  Driver, 'as 
Jed  Morrill  calls  the  Evil  One;  hut  whoever  did 

15 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

it,  the  result  would  be  the  same:  we  should  be 
deserted,  and  live  happily  ever  after.  Oh!  to  be 
deserted,  and  left  with  you  alone  on  this  hilltop, 
what  joy  it  would  be!  " 

Waitstill  frowned,  but  did  not  interfere  further 
with  Patty's  intemperate  speech.  She  knew  that 
she  was  simply  serving  as  an  escape-valve,  and 
that  after  the  steam  was  "let  off"  she  would  be 
more  rational. 

"Of  course,  we  are  motherless,"  continued 
Patty  wistfully,  "but  poor  Ivory  is  worse  than 
motherless. " 

"No,  not  worse,  Patty,"  said  Waitstill,  taking 
the  bread-board  and  moving  towards  the  closet. 
"Ivory  loves  his  mother  and  she  loves  him,  with 
all  the  mind  she  has  left !  She  has  the  best  blood  of 
New  England  flowing  in  her  veins,  and  I  suppose 
it  was  a  great  come-down  for  her  to  marry  Aaron 
Boynton,  clever  and  gifted  though  he  was.  Now 
Ivory  has  to  protect  her,  poor,  daft,  innocent 
creature,  and  hide  her  away  from  the  gossip  of 
the  village.  He  is  surely  the  best  of  sons,  Ivory 
Boynton!" 

"  She  is  a  terrible  care  for  him,  and  like  to  spoil 
his  life,"  said  Patty. 

"There  are  cares  that  swell  the  heart  and  make 
it  bigger  and  warmer,  Patty,  just  as  there  are 
cares  that  shrivel  it  and  leave  it  tired  and  cold. 

16 


THE  STORY  OF  AY.UTSTILL  BAXTER 

Love  lightens  Ivory's  afflictions  but  that  is  some 
thing  you  and  I  have  to  do  without,  so  it  seems." 

"  I  suppose  little  Rodman  is  some  comfort  to 
the  Boyntons,  even  if  he  is  only  ten,"  Patty  sug 
gested. 

"No  doubt.  He's  a  good  little  fellow,  and 
though  it  's  rather  hard  for  Ivory  to  be  burdened 
for  these  last  five  years  with  the  support  of  a  child 
who's  no  nearer  kin  than  a  cousin,  still  he's  of 
use,  minding  Mrs.  Boynton  and  the  house  when 
Ivory's  away.  The  school-teacher  says  he  is 
wonderful  at  his  books  and  likely  to  be  a  great 
credit  to  the  Boyntons  some  day  or  other." 

"  You  've  forgot  to  name  our  one  great  blessing, 
Waity,  and  I  believe,  anyway,  you're  talking  to 
keep  my  mind  off  the  earrings!" 

"You  mean  we've  each  other?  No,  Patty,  I 
never  forget  that,  day  or  night.  'T  is  that  makes 
me  willing  to  bear  any  burden  father  chooses  to 
put  upon  us.  —  Now  the  bread  is  set,  but  I  don't 
believe  I  have  the  courage  to  put  a  needle  into 
your  tender  flesh,  Patty;  I  really  don't." 

"Nonsense!  I've  got  the  waxed  silk  all  ready 
and  chosen  the  right-sized  needle  and  I  '11  promise 
not  to  jump  or  screech  more  than  I  can  help. 
We'll  make  a  tiny  lead-pencil  dot  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  l<>l»e,  then  you  place  the  needle  on 
it,  shut  your  eyes,  and  jab  hard!  I  expect  to 

17 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

faint,  but  when  I  'come  to/  we  can  decide  which 
of  us  will  pull  the  needle  through  to  the  other 
side.  Probably  it  will  be  you,  I  'm  such  a  coward. 
If  it  hurts  dreadfully,  I  '11  have  only  one  pierced 
to-day  and  take  the  other  to-morrow;  and  if  it 
hurts  very  dreadfully,  perhaps  I'll  go  through 
life  with  one  ear-ring.  Aunt  Abby  Cole  will  say 
it's  just  odd  enough  to  suit  me!" 

;<  You  '11  never  go  through  life  with  one  tongue 
at  the  rate  you  use  it  now,"  chided  Waitstill,  "  for 
it  will  never  last  you.  Come,  we  '11  take  the  work- 
basket  and  go  out  in  the  barn  where  no  one  will 
see  or  hear  us." 

"Goody,  goody!  Come  along!"  and  Patty 
clapped  her  hands  in  triumph.  "Have  you  got 
the  pencil  and  the  needle  and  the  waxed  silk? 
Then  bring  the  camphor  bottle  to  revive  me,  and 
the  coral  pendants,  too,  just  to  give  me  courage. 
Hurry  up!  It's  ten  o'clock.  I  was  born  at  sun 
rise,  so  I  'm  *  going  on'  eighteen  and  can't  waste 
any  time!" 


Ill 

DEACON  BAXTER'S  WIVES 

FOXWELL  BAXTER  was  ordinarily  called  "Old 
I  <  >xy  "  by  the  boys  of  the  district,  and  also,  it  is 
to  be  feared,  by  the  men  gathered  for  evening 
conference  at  the  various  taverns,  or  at  one  of  the 
rival  village  stores. 

He  had  a  small  farm  of  fifteen  or  twenty  acres, 
with  a  pasture,  a  wood-lot,  and  a  hay-field,  but 
the  principal  source  of  his  income  came  from 
trading.  His  sign  bore  the  usual  legend:  "WEST 
INDIA  GOODS  AND  GROCERIES,"  and  prob 
ably  the  most  profitable  articles  in  his  stock 
were  rum,  molasses,  sugar,  and  tobacco;  but 
there  were  chests  of  rice,  tea,  coffee,  and  spices, 
barrels  of  pork  in  brine,  as  well  as  piles  of  cotton 
and  woolen  cloth  on  the  shelves  above  the  coun 
ters.  His  shop  window,  seldom  dusted  or  set 
in  order,  held  a  few  clay  pipes,  some  glass  jars 
of  peppermint  or  sassafras  lo/eiiLivs,  Mark  licor 
ice,  stick-candy,  and  sugar  gooseberries.  These 
dainties  were  seldom  renewed,  for  it  was  only  a 
very  l)old  child,  or  one  with  an  unirovernaMe 
appetite  for  sweets,  who  would  have  spent  his 
penny  at  Foxy  Baxter's  store. 

19 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

He  was  thought  a  sharp  and  shrewd  trader, 
but  his  honesty  was  never  questioned;  indeed, 
the  only  trait  in  his  character  that  ever  came  up 
for  general  discussion  wras  his  extraordinary, 
unbelievable,  colossal  meanness.  This  so  eclipsed 
every  other  passion  in  the  man,  and  loomed  so 
bulkily  and  insistently  in  the  foreground,  that 
had  he  cherished  a  second  vice  no  one  would  have 
observed  it,  and  if  he  really  did  possess  a  casual 
virtue,  it  could  scarcely  have  reared  its  head  in 
such  ugly  company. 

It  might  be  said,  to  defend  the  fair  name  of  the 
Church,  that  Mr.  Baxter's  deaconhood  did  not 
include  very  active  service  in  the  courts  of  the 
Lord.  He  had  "experienced  religion"  at  fifteen 
and  made  profession  of  his  faith,  but  all  well- 
brought-up  boys  and  girls  did  the  same  in  those 
days;  their  parents  saw  to  that!  If  change  of 
conviction  or  backsliding  occurred  later  on,  that 
was  not  their  business !  At  the  ripe  age  of  twenty- 
five  he  was  selected  to  fill  a  vacancy  and  became 
a  deacon,  thinking  it  might  be  good  for  trade, 
as  it  was,  for  some  years.  He  was  very  active  at  the 
time  of  the  "Cochrane  craze,"  since  any  defence 
of  the  creed  that  included  lively  detective  work 
and  incessant  spying  on  his  neighbors  was  par 
ticularly  in  his  line;  but  for  many  years  now, 
though  he  had  been  regular  in  attendance  at 

20 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

church,  he  had  never  officiated  at  communion, 
and  his  diaconnl  services  had  gradually  lapsed  into 
the  passing  of  the  contribution-box,  a  task  of 
which  he  never  wearied;  it  was  such  a  keen  pleas 
ure  to  make  other  people  yield  their  pennies  for 
a  good  cause,  without  adding  any  of  his  own ! 

Deacon  Baxter  had  now  been  a  widower  for 
nine  years  and  the  community  had  almost  relin 
quished  the  idea  of  his  seeking  a  fourth  wife.  This 
was  a  matter  of  some  regret,  for  there  was  a  general 
feeling  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  the  Bax 
ter  girls  to  have  some  one  to  help  with  the  house 
work  and  act  as  a  buffer  between  them  and  their 
grim  and  irascible  parent.  As  for  the  women  of 
the  village,  they  were  mortified  that  the  Deacon 
had  been  able  to  secure  three  wives,  and  refused 
to  believe  that  the  universe  held  anywhere  a 
creature  benighted  enough  to  become  his  fourth. 

The  first,  be  it  said,  was  a  mere  ignorant  girl, 
and  he  a  beardless  youth  of  twenty,  who  may 
not  have  shown  his  true  qualities  so  early  in  life. 
She  bore  him  two  sons,  and  it  was  a  matter  of 
comment  at  the  time  that  she  called  them, 
respectively ,  Job  and  Moses,  hoping  that  the 
endurance  and  meekness  connected  with  these 
names  might  somehow  help  them  in  their  future 
relations  with  their  father.  Pneumonia,  coupled 
with  profound  discouragement,  carried  her  off  in 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

a  few  years  to  make  room  for  the  second  wife, 
WaitstilPs  mother,  who  was  of  different  fibre  and 
greatly  his  superior.  She  was  a  fine,  handsome 
girl,  the  orphan  daughter  of  up-country  gentle 
folks,  who  had  died  when  she  was  eighteen,  leav 
ing  her  alone  in  the  world  and  penniless. 

Baxter,  after  a  few  days'  acquaintance,  drove 
into  the  dooryard  of  the  house  where  she  was  a 
visitor  and,  showing  her  his  two  curly-headed 
boys,  suddenly  asked  her  to  come  and  be  their 
stepmother.  She  assented,  partly  because  she 
had  nothing  else  to  do  with  her  existence,  so 
far  as  she  could  see,  and  also  because  she  fell  in 
love  with  the  children  at  first  sight  and  forgot,  as 
girls  will,  that  it  was  their  father  whom  she  was 
marrying. 

She  was  as  plucky  and  clever  and  spirited  as 
she  was  handsome,  and  she  made  a  brave  fight 
of  it  with  Foxy;  long  enough  to  bring  a  daughter 
into  the  world,  to  name  her  Waitstill,  and  start 
her  a  little  way  on  her  life  journey,  —  then  she, 
too,  gave  up  the  struggle  and  died.  Typhoid 
fever  it  was,  combined  with  complete  loss  of 
illusions,  and  a  kind  of  despairing  rage  at  having 
made  so  complete  a  failure  of  her  existence. 

The  next  year,  Mr.  Baxter,  being  unusually 
busy,  offered  a  man  a  good  young  heifer  if  he 
would  jog  about  the  country  a  little  and  pick 

22 


Tm:  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

him  up  a  hotuekeeper;  a  likely  woman  who 
would,  if  she  proved  energetic,  economical,  and 
amiable,  be  eventually  raised  to  the  proud  peti 
tion  of  his  wife.  If  she  was  young,  healthy,  smart , 
tidy,  capable,  and  a  good  manager,  able  to  milk 
the  cows,  harness  the  horse,  and  make  good 
butter,  he  would  give  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  week. 
The  woman  was  found,  and,  incredible  as  it  may 
seem,  she  said  "yes"  when  the  Deacon  (whose 
ardor  was  kindled  at  having  paid  three  months' 
wages)  proposed  a  speedy  marriage.  The  two 
boys  by  this  time  had  reached  the  age  of  discre 
tion,  and  one  of  them  evinced  the  fact  by  promptly 
running  away  to  parts  unknown,  never  to  be 
heard  from  afterwards:  while  the  other,  a  reckless 
and  unhappy  lad,  was  drowned  while  running 
on  the  logs  in  the  river.  Old  Foxy  showed  little 
outward  sign  of  his  loss,  though  he  had  brought 
the  boys  into  the  world  solely  with  the  view  of 
having  one  of  them  work  on  the  farm  and  the 
other  in  the  store. 

His  third  wife,  the  one  originally  secured  for  a 
housekeeper,  bore  him  a  girl,  very  much  to  his 
di-Lru>L  a  irirl  named  Patience,  and  great  was 
\Yaitsl  ill's  delight  at  this  addition  to  the  dull 
household.  The  mother  \\as  a  timid,  colorless, 
docile  erealure,  but  Patience  nevert  heles>  was 
a  sparkling,  bright-eyed  baby,  who  speedily  be- 

ta 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

came  the  very  centre  of  the  universe  to  the  older 
child.  So  the  months  and  years  wore  on,  drear 
ily  enough,  until,  when  Patience  was  eight,  the 
third  Mrs.  Baxter  succumbed  after  the  manner  of 
her  predecessors,  and  slipped  away  from  a  life 
that  had  grown  intolerable.  The  trouble  was 
diagnosed  as  "liver  complaint,"  but  scarcity  of 
proper  food,  no  new  frocks  or  kind  words,  hard 
work,  and  continual  bullying  may  possibly  have 
been  contributory  causes.  Dr.  Perry  thought  so, 
for  he  had  witnessed  three  most  contented  deaths 
in  the  Baxter  house.  The  ladies  were  all  members 
of  the  church  and  had  presumably  made  their 
peace  with  God,  but  the  good  doctor  fancied 
that  their  pleasure  in  joining  the  angels  was  mild 
compared  with  their  relief  at  parting  with  the 
Deacon. 

"I  know  I  had  n't  ought  to  put  the  care  on 
you,  Waitstill,  and  you  only  fourteen,"  poor 
Mrs.  Baxter  sighed,  as  the  young  girl  was  watch 
ing  with  her  one  night  when  the  end  seemed 
drawing  near.  "I've  made  out  to  live  till  now 
when  Patience  is  old  enough  to  dress  herself  and 
help  round,  but  I'm  all  beat  out  and  can't  try 
any  more." 

"Do  you  mean  I'm  to  take  your  place,  be  a 
mother  to  Patience,  and  keep  house,  and  every 
thing?"  asked  Waitstill  quaveringly. 

24 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

"I  don't  see  but  you'll  have  to,  unless  your 
father  marries  again.  He'll  never  hire  help,  you 
know  that  I" 

"I  won't  have  another  mother  in  this  house," 
flashed  the  girl.  'There's  been  three  here  and 
that's  enough!  If  he  brings  anybody  home,  I'll 
take  Patience  and  run  away,  as  Job  did;  or  if  he 
leaves  me  alone,  I  '11  wash  and  iron  and  scrub  and 
cook  till  Patience  grows  up,  and  then  we'll  go 
off  together  and  hide  somewhere.  I'm  fourteen; 
oh,  mother,  how  soon  could  I  be  married  and 
take  Patience  to  live  with  me?  Do  you  think 
anybody  will  ever  want  me?" 

"  Don't  marry  for  a  home,  Waitstill !  Your  own 
mother  did  that,  and  so  did  I,  and  we  were  both 
punished  for  it!  You've  been  a  great  help  and 
I  've  had  a  sight  of  comfort  out  of  the  baby,  but  I 
would  n't  go  through  it  again,  not  even  for  her! 
You're  real  smart  and  capable  for  your  age  and 
you've  done  your  full  share  of  the  work  every 
day,  even  when  you  were  at  school.  You  can  get 
along  all  right." 

"I  don't  know  how  I'm  going  to  do  even-thing 
alone/'  >aid  the  girl,  forcing  hack  her  tears. 
"You 'veal  ways  made  the  brown  bread,  and  mine 
will  never  suit  father.  I  suppose  I  can  wash,  hut 
I  don't  know  how  to  iron  Marched  clothes,  nor 
make  pickles,  and  oh!  I  can  never  kill  a  rooster, 

25 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

mother,  it's  no  use  to  ask  me  to!    I'm  not  big 
enough  to  be  the  head  of  the  family." 

Mrs.  Baxter  turned  her  pale,  tired  face  away 
from  Waitstill's  appealing  eyes. 

"I  know,"  she  said  faintly.  "I  hate  to  leave 
you  to  bear  the  brunt  alone,  but  I  must!  .  .  . 
Take  good  care  of  Patience  and  don't  let  her  get 
into  trouble.  .  .  .  You  won't,  will  you?" 

"I'll  be  careful,"  promised  Waitstill,  sobbing 
quietly;  "I'll  do  my  best." 

"You've  got  more  courage  than  ever  I  had; 
don't  you  s'pose  you  can  stiffen  up  and  defend 
yourself  a  little  mite?  .  .  .  Your  father 'd  ouuht 
to  be  opposed,  for  his  own  good  .  .  .  but  I've 
never  seen  anybody  that  dared  do  it."  Then, 
after  a  pause,  she  said  with  a  flash  of  spirit,  - 
"Anyhow,  Waitstill,  he's  your  father  after  all. 
He's  no  blood  relation  of  mine,  and  I  can't  stand 
him  another  day;  that's  the  reason  I'm  willing  to 
die." 


IV 

SOMETHING    OF   A    HERO 

IVORY  BOYNTON  lifted  the  bars  that  divided  his 
land  from  the  highroad  and  walked  slowly 
toward  the  house.  It  was  April,  but  there  were 
still  patches  of  snow  here  and  there,  fast  melting 
under  a  drizzling  rain.  It  was  a  gray  world,  a 
bleak,  black-and-brown  world,  above  and  below. 
The  sky  was  leaden;  the  road  and  the  footpath 
were  deep  in  a  muddy  ooze  flecked  with  white. 
The  tree-trunks,  black,  with  bare  branches,  were 
outlined  against  the  gray  sky;  nevertheless,  spring 
had  been  on  the  way  for  a  week,  and  a  few  sunny 
days  would  bring  the  yearly  miracle  for  which  all 
hearts  were  longing. 

Ivory  was  season-wise1  and  his  quick  eye  had 
caught  many  a  sign  as  he  walked  through  the 
woods  from  his  schoolhouse.  A  new  and  different 
color  haunted  the  tree-tops,  and  one  had  only  to 
look  closely  at  the  elm  buds  to  see  that  they  were 
beginning  to  swell.  Some  fat  robins  had  been 
bouncing  about  in  the  school -yard  at  noon,  and 
the  sparrows  had  been  chirping  and  twittering 
on  the  fenee-raiU.  Yes.  the  winter  was  over,  and 
Ivory  was  glad,  for  it  had  meant  no  coasting  and 

27 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

skating  and  sleighing  for  him,  but  long  walks  in 
deep  snow  or  slush;  long  evenings,  good  for 
study,  but  short  days,  and  greater  loneliness  for 
his  mother.  He  could  see  her  now  as  he  neared 
the  house,  standing  in  the  open  doorway,  her 
hand  shading  her  eyes,  watching,  always  watch 
ing,  for  some  one  who  never  came. 

"Spring  is  on  the  way,  mother,  but  it  isn't 
here  yet,  so  don't  stand  there  in  the  rain/'  he 
called.  "Look^,t  the  nosegay  I  gathered  for  you 
as  I  came  through  the  woods.  Here  are  pussy 
willows  and  red  maple  blossoms  and  Mayflowers, 
would  you  believe  it?" 

Lois  Boynton  took  the  handful  of  budding 
things  and  sniffed  their  fragrance. 

"  You  're  late  to-night,  Ivory,"  she  said.  "Rod 
wanted  his  supper  early  so  that  he  could  go  off 
to  singing-school,  but  I  kept  something  warm  for 
you,  and  I  '11  make  you  a  fresh  cup  of  tea." 

Ivory  went  into  the  little  shed  room  off  the 
kitchen,  changed  his  muddy  boots  for  slippers, 
and  made  himself  generally  tidy;  then  he  came 
back  to  the  living-room  bringing  a  pine  knot 
which  he  flung  on  the  fire,  waking  it  to  a  brilliant 
flame. 

"We  can  be  as  lavish  as  we  like  with  the 
stumps  now,  mother,  for  spring  is  coming,"  he 
said,  as  he  sat  down  to  his  meal. 

28 


THE  STORY  OF  AY.MTSTII.L  BAXTER 

"I've  been  looking  out  more  than  usual  this 
afternoon,"  she  replied.  "There's  hardly  any 
snow  left,  and  though  the  walking  is  so  bad  I've 
been  rather  expecting  your  father  before  night. 
You  remember  he  said,  when  he  went  away  in 
January,  that  he  should  be  back  before  the  May 
flowers  bloomed?" 

It  did  not  do  any  good  to  say:  "Yes,  mother, 
but  the  Mayflowers  have  bloomed  ten  times  since 
father  went  away."  He  had  tried  that,  gently 
and  persistently  when  first  her  mind  began  to 
be  confused,  from  long  grief  and  hurt  love, 
stricken  pride  and  sick  suspense. 

Instead  of  that,  Ivory  turned  the  subject 
cheerily,  saying,  "Well,  we're  sure  of  a  good 
season,  I  think.  There's  been  a  grand  snow-fall, 
and  that,  they  say,  is  the  poor  man's  manure. 
Rod  and  I  will  put  in  more  corn  and  potatoes 
tliis  year.  I  shan't  have  to  work  single-handed 
very  long,  for  he  is  growing  to  be  quite  a  farmer." 

"Your  father  was  very  fond  of  green  corn,  but 
he  never  cared  for  potatoes,"  Mrs.  Boynton  said, 
vaguely,  taking  up  her  knitting.  "I  always  had 
great  pride  in  my  cooking,  but  I  could  never  get 
your  father  to  relish  my  potatoes." 

"Well,  his  son  does,  anyway,"  Ivory  replied, 
helping  him>elf  plentifully  from  a  dish  that  held 
one  of  his  mother's  best  concoctions,  potatoes 

29 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

minced  fine  and  put  together  into  the  spider  with 
thin  bits  of  pork  and  all  browned  together. 

"I  saw  the  Baxter  girls  to-day,  mother,"  he 
continued,  not  because  he  hoped  she  would  give 
any  heed  to  what  he  said,  but  from  the  sheer  long 
ing  for  companionship.  "The  Deacon  drove  off 
with  Lawyer  Wilson,  who  wanted  him  to  give 
testimony  in  some  case  or  other  down  in  Mill- 
town.  The  minute  Patty  saw  him  going  up  Saco 
Hill,  she  harnessed  the  old  starved  Baxter  mare 
and  the  girls  started  over  to  the  Lower  Corner  to 
see  some  friends.  It  seems  it's  Patty's  birthday 
and  they  were  celebrating.  I  met  them  just  as 
they  were  coming  back  and  helped  them  lift  the 
rickety  wagon  out  of  the  mud;  they  were  stuck 
in  it  up  to  the  hubs  of  the  wheels.  I  advised  them 
to  walk  up  the  Town-House  Hill  if  they  ever 
expected  to  get  the  horse  home/' 

"Town-House  Hill!"  said  Ivory's  mother, 
dropping  her  knitting.  "That  was  where  we  had 
such  wonderful  meetings!  Truly  the  Lord  was 
present  in  our  midst,  and  oh,  Ivory!  the  visions 
we  saw  in  that  place  when  Jacob  Cochrane  first 
unfolded  his  gospel  to  us.  Was  ever  such  a  man!" 

"Probably  not,  mother,"  remarked  Ivory  dryly. 

"You  were  speaking  of  the  Baxters.  I  remem 
ber  their  home,  and  the  little  girl  who  used  to 
stand  in  the  gateway  and  watch  when  we  came 

30 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

out  of  meeting.    There  was  a  baby,  too;  is  n't 
there  a  Baxter  baby,  Ivory?" 

"She  did  n't  stay  a  baby;  she  is  seventeen 
years  old  to-day,  mother." 

'You  surprise  me,  but  children  do  grow  very 
t'a>t.  She  had  a  strange  name,  but  I  cannot 
recall  it." 

"Her  name  is  Patience,  but  nobody  but  her 
father  culls  her  anything  but  Patty,  which  suits 
her  much  better." 

"No,  the  name  was  n't  Patience,  not  the  one 
I  mean." 

'The  older  sister  is  Wuitstill,  perhaps  you 
mean  her?"  -and  Ivory  sat  down  by  the  fire 
with  his  book  and  his  pipe. 

"Waitstill!  Waitstill!  that  is  it!  Such  a 
beautiful  name!" 

"She's  a  beautiful  girl." 

"Waitstill!  'They  also  serve  who  only  stand 
and  wait.'  'Wait,  I  say,  on  the  Lord  and  He 
will  give  thee  the  desires  of  thy  heart.'  -  Those 
were  wonderful  days,  when  we  were  caught  up 
out  of  the  body  and  mingled  freely  in  the  spirit 
world."  Mrs.  Iloynton  was  now  fully  started  on 
I  he  topic  that  absorbed  hrr  mind  and  Ivory  could 
do  nothing  but  let  her  tell  the  story  that  she  had 
told  him  a  hundred  limrs. 

"I     remember    when    first    we    heard    Jacob 
8] 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Cochrane  speak. "  (This  was  her  usual  way  of 
beginning.)  'Your  father  was  a  preacher,  as 
you  know,  Ivory,  but  you  will  never  know  what 
a  wonderful  preacher  he  was.  My  grandfather, 
being  a  fine  gentleman,  and  a  governor,  would 
not  give  his  consent  to  my  marriage,  but  I  never 
regretted  it,  never!  Your  father  saw  Elder 
Cochrane  at  a  revival  meeting  of  the  Free  AVill 
Baptists  in  Scarboro',  and  was  much  impressed 
with  him.  A  few  days  later  we  went  to  the  funeral 
of  a  child  in  the  same  neighborhood.  No  one  who 
was  there  could  ever  forget  it.  The  minister  had 
made  his  long  prayer  when  a  man  suddenly 
entered  the  room,  came  towards  the  coffin,  and 
placed  his  hand  on  the  child's  forehead.  The 
room,  in  an  instant,  was  as  still  as  the  death  that 
had  called  us  together.  The  stranger  was  tall 
and  of  commanding  presence;  his  eyes  pierced 
our  very  hearts,  and  his  marvellous  voice  pene 
trated  to  depths  in  our  souls  that  had  never  been 
reached  before." 

"Was  he  a  better  speaker  than  my  father?" 
asked  Ivory,  who  dreaded  his  mother's  hours  of 
complete  silence  even  more  than  her  periods  of 
reminiscence. 

"He  spoke  as  if  the  Lord  of  Hosts  had  given 
him  inspiration;  as  if  the  angels  were  pouring 
words  into  his  mouth  just  for  him  to  utter," 

32 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTI  u 

replied  Mrs.  Boynton.  "Your  father  was  spell 
bound,  and  I  only  less  so.  When  he  ceased  speak 
ing,  the  child's  mother  crossed  the  room,  and 
swaying  to  and  fro,  fell  at  his  feet,  sobbing  and 
wailing  and  imploring  (iod  to  forgive  her  sins. 
They  carried  her  upstairs,  and  when  we  looked 
about  after  the  confusion  and  excitement  the 
stranger  had  vanished.  But  we  found  him  again! 
As  Elder  Cochrane  said:  'The  prophet  of  the 
Lord  can  never  be  hid;  no  darkness  is  thick 
enough  to  cover  him!'  There  was  a  six  weeks' 
revival  meeting  in  North  Saco  where  three 
hundred  souls  were  converted,  and  your  father 
and  I  were  among  them.  We  had  fancied  our 
selves  true  believers  for  years,  but  Jacob  Coch 
rane  unstopped  our  ears  so  that  we  could  hear 
the  truths  revealed  to  him  by  the  Almighty !  - 
It  was  all  so  simple  and  easy  at  the  beginning, 
but  it  grew  hard  and  grievous  afterward;  hard 
to  keep  the  path,  I  mean.  I  never  quite  knew 
whether  God  was  angry  with  me  for  backslid 
ing  at  the  end,  but  I  could  not  always  accept 
the  revelations  that  Elder  Cochrane  and  your 
father  had!" 

Lois  Boyntini's  hands  were  now  quietly  folded 
over  the  knitting  that  lay  forgotten  in  her  lap, 
but  her  low,  thrilling  voice  had  a  note  in  it  that 
did  not  belong  wholly  to  earth. 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

There  was  a  long  silence;  one  of  many  long 
silences  at  the  Boynton  fireside,  broken  only  by 
the  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  purring  of  the  cat, 
and  the  clicking  of  Mrs.  Boynton's  needles,  as, 
her  paroxysm  of  reminiscence  over,  she  knitted 
ceaselessly,  with  her  eyes  on  the  window  or  the 
door. 

"It's  about  time  for  Rod  to  be  coming  back, 
is  n't  it?"  asked  Ivory. 

"He  ought  to  be  here  soon,  but  perhaps  he  is 
gone  for  good;  it  may  be  that  he  thinks  he  has 
made  us  a  long  enough  visit.  I  don't  know  whe 
ther  your  father  will  like  the  boy  when  he  comes 
home.  He  never  did  fancy  company  in  the  house." 

Ivory  looked  up  in  astonishment  from  his 
Greek  grammar.  This  was  an  entirely  new  turn 
of  his  mother's  mind.  Often  when  she  was  more 
than  usually  confused  he  would  try  to  clear  the 
cobwebs  from  her  brain  by  gently  questioning 
her  until  she  brought  herself  back  to  a  clearer 
understanding  of  her  own  thought.  Thus  far 
her  vagaries  had  never  made  her  unjust  to  any 
human  creature;  she  was  uniformly  sweet  and 
gentle  in  speech  and  demeanor. 

"Why  do  you  talk  of  Rod's  visiting  us  when 
he  is  one  of  the  family?"  Ivory  asked  quietly. 

"Is  he  one  of  the  family?  I  did  n't  know  it," 
replied  his  mother  absently. 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

"Look  at  me,  mother,  straight  in  the  eye; 
that's  right:  now  listen,  dear,  to  what  I  say." 

M  rs.  Boynton's  hair  that  had  been  in  her  youth 
like  an  aureole  of  corn-silk  was  now  a  strange 
yellow-white,  and  her  blue  eyes  looked  out  from 
her  pale  face  with  a  helpless  appeal. 

"You  and  I  were  living  alone  here  after  father 
went  away,"  Ivory  began.  "I  wras  a  little  boy, 
you  know.  You  and  father  had  saved  something, 
there  was  the  farm,  you  worked  like  a  slave,  I 
helped,  and  we  lived,  somehow,  do  you  re 
member?" 

"I  do,  indeed!  It  was  cold  and  the  neighbors 
were  cruel.  Jacob  Cochrane  had  gone  away  and 
his  disciples  were  not  always  true  to  him.  When 
the  magnetism  of  his  presence  was  withdrawn, 
they  could  not  follow  all  his  revelations,  and  they 
forgot  how  he  had  awakened  their  spiritual  life 
at  the  first  of  his  preaching.  Your  father  was 
always  a  >tanch  believer,  but  when  he  started 
on  his  mission  and  went  to  Parsonsfield  to  help 
Kl<ler  Cochrane  in  his  meetings,  the  neighbors 
be.iran  to  erit  iei/e  him.  They  doubted  him.  You 
were  too  young  to  realize  it,  but  I  did,  and  it 
almost  broke  my  heart." 

"I  was  nearly  twelve  years  old;  do  you  think 
I  escaped  all  the  gossip,  mother?" 

4  You  never  spoke  of  it  to  me.  Ivory." 
M 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"No,  there  is  much  that  I  never  spoke  of  to 
you,  mother,  but  sometime  when  you  grow 
stronger  and  your  memory  is  better  we  will 
talk  together.  —  Do  you  remember  the  winter, 
long  after  father  went  away,  that  Parson  Lane 
sent  me  to  Fairfield  Academy  to  get  enough 
Greek  and  Latin  to  make  me  a  schoolmaster?" 

;<Yes,"  she  answered  uncertainly. 

"Don't  you  remember  I  got  a  free  ride  down 
river  one  Friday  and  came  home  for  Sunday,  just 
to  surprise  you?  And  when  I  got  here  I  found 
you  ill  in  bed,  with  Mrs.  Mason  and  Dr.  Perry 
taking  care  of  you.  You  could  not  speak,  you 
were  so  ill,  but  they  told  me  you  had  been  up  in 
New  Hampshire  to  see  your  sister,  that  she  had 
died,  and  that  you  had  brought  back  her  boy, 
who  was  only  four  years  old.  That  was  Rod.  I 
took  him  into  bed  with  me  that  night,  poor, 
homesick  little  fellow,  and,  as  you  know,  mother, 
he's  never  left  us  since." 

"I  didn't  remember  I  had  a  sister.  Is  she 
dead,  Ivory?"  asked  Mrs.  Boynton  vaguely. 

"If  she  were  not  dead,  do  you  suppose  you 
would  have  kept  Rodman  with  us  when  we 
had  n't  bread  enough  for  our  own  two  mouths, 
mother?"  questioned  Ivory  patiently. 

"No,  of  course  not.  I  can't  think  how  I  can 
be  so  forgetful.  It 's  worse  sometimes  than  others. 

36 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

It's  worse  to-day  because  I  knew  the  May 
flowers  were  blooming  and  that  reminded  me  it 
was  time  for  your  father  to  come  home;  you 
must  forgive  me,  dear,  and  will  you  excuse  me  if 
I  sit  in  the  kitchen  awhile?  The  window  by  the 
side  door  looks  out  towards  the  road,  and  if  I 
put  a  candle  on  the  sill  it  shines  quite  a  distance. 
The  lane  is  such  a  long  one,  and  your  father  was 
always  a  sad  stumbler  in  the  dark!  I  shouldn't 
like  him  to  think  I  was  n't  looking  for  him  when 
he's  been  gone  since  January." 

Ivory's  pipe  went  out,  and  his  book  slipped 
from  his  knee  unnoticed. 

His  mother  was  more  confused  than  usual,  but 
she  always  was  when  spring  came  to  remind  her 
of  her  husband's  promise.  Somehow,  well  used 
as  he  was  to  her  mental  wanderings,  they  made 
him  uneasy  to- nidi  I.  His  father  had  left  home 
on  a  fancied  mission,  a  duty  he  believed  to  be 
a  revelation  given  by  God  through  Jacob 
Cochrane.  The  farm  did  not  miss  him  much  at 
first,  Ivory  reflected  bitterly,  for  since  his  fanali- 
<  1  espousal  of  Cochranisni  his  father's  interest 
in  such  mundane  matters  as  household  expr! 
had  diminished  month  by  month  until  they  had 
no  meaning  for  him  at  all.  Letters  to  wife  and 
hoy  had  come  at  first,  hut  after  >i\  months  — 
during  whicfa  he  had  written  from  many  places, 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

continually  deferring  the  date  of  his  return  — 
they  had  ceased  altogether.  The  rest  was  silence. 
Rumors  of  his  presence  here  or  there  came  from 
time  to  time,  but  though  Parson  Lane  and  Dr. 
Perry  did  their  best,  none  of  them  were  ever  sub 
stantiated. 

\Vhere  had  those  years  of  wandering  been 
passed,  and  had  they  all  been  given  even  to 
an  imaginary  and  fantastic  service  of  God  ? 
Was  his  father  dead?  If  he  were  alive,  what 
could  keep  him  from  writing?  Nothing  but  a 
very  strong  reason,  or  a  very  wrong  one,  so  his 
son  thought,  at  times. 

Since  Ivory  had  grown  to  man's  estate,  he 
understood  that  in  the  later  days  of  Cochrane's 
preaching,  his  "visions,"  "inspirations,"  and 
"revelations"  concerning  the  marriage  bond 
were  a  trifle  startling  from  the  old-fashioned, 
orthodox  point  of  view.  His  most  advanced 
disciples  were  to  hold  themselves  in  readiness  to 
renounce  their  former  vows  and  seek  "spiritual 
consorts,"  sometimes  according  to  his  advice, 
sometimes  as  their  inclinations  prompted. 

Had  Aaron  Boynton  forsaken,  willingly,  the 
wife  of  his  youth,  the  mother  of  his  boy?  If  so, 
he  must  have  realized  to  what  straits  lie  was  sub 
jecting  them.  Ivory  had  not  forgotten  those 
first  few  years  of  grinding  poverty,  anxiety,  and 

38 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

suspense.  His  mother's  mind  had  stood  the 
strain  bravely,  but  it  gave  way  at  last;  not,  how 
ever,  until  that  fatal  winter  journey  to  New 
Hampshire,  when  cold,  exposure,  and  fatigue 
did  their  worst  for  her  weak  body.  Religious 
enthusiast,  exalted  and  impressionable,  a  natural 
mystic,  she  had  probably  always  been,  far  more 
so  in  temperament,  indeed,  than  her  husband; 
but  although  she  left  home  on  that  journey  a 
frail  and  heartsick  woman,  she  returned  a  differ 
ent  creature  altogether,  blurred  and  confused 
in  mind,  with  clouded  memory  and  irrational 
fancies. 

She  must  have  given  up  hope,  just  then,  Ivory 
thought,  and  her  love  was  so  deep  that  when 
it  was  uprooted  the  soil  came  with  it.  Now 
hope  had  returned  because  the  cruel  memory 
had  faded  altogether.  She  sat  by  the  kitchen 
window  in  gentle  expectation,  watching,  always 
watching. 

And  this  is  the  way  many  of  Ivory  Boynton's 
evenings  were  spent,  while  the  heart  of  him,  the 
five-and-t wen ty -year-old  heart  of  him,  was  long 
ing  to  feel  the  beat  of  another  heart,  a  girl's 
heart  only  a  mile  or  more  away.  The  ice  in 
Sam  \Yater  had  broken  up  and  the  while  Mocks 
sailed  ma  jr>t  ieally  down  towards  the  sea;  sap 
was  mounting  and  the  elm  trees  were  budding; 

99 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

the  trailing  arbutus  was  blossoming  in  the  woods; 
the  robins  had  come;  —  everything  was  announc 
ing  the  spring,  yet  Ivory  saw  no  changing  sea 
sons  in  his  future;  nothing  but  winter,  eternal 
winter  there! 


V 

PATIENCE   AND    IMPATIENCE 

PATTY  had  been  searching  for  eggs  in  the  barn 
chamber,  and  coming  down  the  ladder  from  the 
haymow  spied  her  father  washing  the  wagon  by 
the  well-side  near  the  shed  door.  Cephas  Cole 
kept  store  for  him  at  meal  hours  and  whenever 
trade  was  unusually  brisk,  and  the  Baxter  yard 
was  so  happily  situated  that  Old  Foxy  could 
watch  both  house  and  store. 

There  never  was  a  good  time  to  ask  Deacon 
Baxter  a  favor,  therefore  this  moment  would 
serve  as  well  as  any  other,  so,  approaching  him 
near  enough  to  be  heard  through  the  rubbing 
and  splashing,  but  no  nearer  than  was  necessary, 
Patty  said :  - 

"Father,  can  I  go  up  to  Ellen  Wilson's  this 
afternoon  and  stay  to  tea?  I  won't  start  till  I've 
done  a  good  day's  work  and  I'll  come  home 
early." 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  gallivant  in'  to  the 
neighbors  for?  I  never  saw  anything  like  the  girls 
nowadays;  highty-tighty,  flaunt  iif,  traipsiif, 
triiliif  trollops,  ev'ry  one  of 'em,  that's  what  they 
are,  and  Ellen  Wilson's  one  of  the  trifliifest. 

41 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

You're  old  enough  now  to  stay  to  home  where 
you  belong  and  make  an  effort  to  earn  your 
board  and  clothes,  which  you  can't,  even  if  you 
try." 

Spunk,  real,  Simon-pure  spunk,  started  some 
where  in  Patty  and  coursed  through  her  blood 
like  wine. 

"If  a  girl's  old  enough  to  stay  at  home  and 
work,  I  should  think  she  was  old  enough  to  go 
out  and  play  once  in  a  while."  Patty  was  still 
too  timid  to  make  this  remark  more  than  a 
courteous  suggestion,  so  far  as  its  tone  was 
concerned. 

"Don't  answer  me  back;  you're  full  of  new 
tricks,  and  you've  got  to  stop  'em,  right  where 
you  are,  or  there'll  be  trouble.  You  were  whist- 
lin'  just  nowT  up  in  the  barn  chamber;  that's  one 
of  the  things  I  won't  have  round  my  premises,  - 
a  whistlin'  girl." 

"'Twas  a  Sabbath-School  hymn  that  I  was 
whistling!"  This  with  a  creditable  imitation  of 
defiance. 

"That  don't  make  it  any  better.  Sing  your 
hymns  if  you  must  make  a  noise  while  you're 
workin'." 

"It's  the  same  mouth  that  makes  the  whistle 
and  sings  the  song,  so  I  don't  see  why  one's  any 
wickeder  than  the  other." 

48 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"You  don't  have  to  see,"  replied  the  Deacon 
grimly ;  *'  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  mind  when  you're 
spoken  to.  Now  run  'long  'bout  your  work." 

"Can't  I  go  up  to  Ellen's,  then?" 

"What's  goin'  on  up  there?" 

"Just  a  frolic.  There's  always  a  good  time  at 
Ellen's,  and  I  would  so  like  the  sight  of  a  big,  rich 
house  now  and  then  |M 

"'Just  a  frolic.'  Land  o'  Goshen,  hear  the  girl! 
*  Sight  of  a  big,  rich  house,'  indeed!  -  -  Will  there 
be  any  boys  at  the  party?" 

"I  s'pose  so,  or  't  would  n't  be  a  frolic,"  said 
Patty  with  awful  daring;  "but  there  won't  be 
many;  only  a  few  of  Mark's  friends." 

"Well,  there  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  more  ariry- 
fyin'!  I  won't  have  any  girl  o'  mine  frolickin' 
with  boys,  so  that's  the  end  of  it.  You're  kind 
o'  crazy  lately,  riggin*  yourself  out  with  a  ribbon 
here  and  a  flower  there,  and  pullin'  your  hair 
<i<  >\\  n  over  your  ears.  Why  do  you  want  to  cover 
your  ean  up?  What  are  they  for?" 

:<To  hear  you  with,  father,"  Patty  replied, 
with  honey-sweet  voice  and  eyes  that  blazed. 

"Well,  I  hope  they'll  never  hear  anything 
wane"  replied  her  father,  flinging  a  bucket  of 
water  over  the  last  of  the  wagon  wheels. 

"They  couldn't!"  These  words  were  never 
spoken  aloud,  hut  oh  !  how  Patty  longed  to  shout 

48 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

them  with  a  clarion  voice  as  she  walked  away  in 
perfect  silence,  her  majestic  gait  showing,  she 
hoped,  how  she  resented  the  outcome  of  the 
interview. 

"I've  stood  up  to  father!"  she  exclaimed 
triumphantly  as  she  entered  the  kitchen  and  set 
down  her  yellow  bowl  of  eggs  on  the  table.  "I 
stood  up  to  him,  and  answered  him  back  three 
times!" 

Waitstill  was  busy  with  her  Saturday  morning 
cooking,  but  she  turned  in  alarm. 

"Patty,  what  have  you  said  and  done?  Tell 
me  quickly!" 

"I  'argyfied,'  but  it  did  n't  do  any  good;  he 
won't  let  me  go  to  Ellen's  party." 

Waitstill  wiped  her  floury  hands  and  put  them 
on  her  sister's  shoulders. 

"Hear  what  I  say,  Patty:  you  must  not  argue 
with  father,  whatever  he  says.  We  don't  love 
him  and  so  there  is  n't  the  right  respect  in  our 
hearts,  but  at  least  there  can  be  respect  in  our 
manners." 

"I  don't  believe  I  can  go  on  for  years,  holding 
in,  Waitstill!"  Patty  whimpered. 

"Yes,  you  can.   I  have!" 

"You're  different,  Waitstill." 

"I  wasn't  so  different  at  sixteen,  but  that's 
five  years  ago,  and  I  've  got  control  of  my  tongue 

44 


••wri.i..    fHBRl    MN' 


THE  STOHY  OF  WAIT-TILL  BAXTER 

and  my  temper  since  then.  Sometime,  perhaps, 
when  I  have  a  grievance  too  great  to  be  rightly 
borne,  sometime  when  you  are  away  from  here  in 
a  home  of  your  own,  I  shall  speak  out  to  father; 
just  empty  my  heart  of  all  the  disappointment 
and  bitterness  and  rebellion.  Somebody  ought 
to  tell  him  the  truth,  and  perhaps  it  will  be  me!" 

"I  wish  it  could  be  me,"  exclaimed  Patty  vin 
dictively,  and  with  an  equal  disregard  of  gram 
mar. 

"You  would  speak  in  temper,  I'm  afraid, 
Putty,  and  that  would  spoil  all.  I'm  sorry-  you 
can't  go  up  to  Ellen's,"  she  sighed,  turning  back 
to  her  work;  "you  don't  have  pleasure  enough 
for  one  of  your  age;  still,  don't  fret;  something 
muy  happen  to  change  things,  and  anyhow  the 
weather  is  growing  warmer,  and  you  and  I  have 
so  many  more  outings  in  summer-time.  Smooth 
down  your  hair,  child;  there  are  straws  in  it,  and 
it's  all  rough  with  the  wind.  I  don't  like  flying 
hair  about  a  kitchen." 

"  I  wish  my  hair  was  flying  somewhere  a  thou- 
suml  miles  from  here;  or  at  least  I  should  wish 
it  if  it  did  not  mean  leaving  you;  for  oh!  I  'm  so 
miserable  ami  disappointed  and  unhappy!" 

Wait  still  bent  over  the  i^irl  as  she  filing  herself 
down  beside  the  table  and  smoothed  her  shoulder 
gently. 

45 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"There,  there,  dear;  it  is  n't  like  my  gay  little 
sister  to  cry.  What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day, 
Patty?" 

"  I  suppose  it 's  the  spring,"  she  said,  wiping  her 
eyes  with  her  apron  and  smiling  through  her 
tears.  "Perhaps  I  need  a  dose  of  sulphur  and 
molasses." 

"Don't  you  feel  well  as  common?" 

"  Well?  I  feel  too  well !  I  feel  as  if  I  was  a  young 
colt  shut  up  in  an  attic.  I  want  to  kick  up  my 
heels,  batter  the  door  down,  and  get  out  into  the 
pasture.  It's  no  use  talking,  Waity;  —  I  can't 
go  on  living  without  a  bit  of  pleasure  and  I  can't 
go  on  being  patient  even  for  your  sake.  If  it 
were  n't  for  you,  I'd  run  away  as  Job  did;  and  I 
never  believed  Moses  slipped  on  the  logs;  I'm 
sure  he  threw  himself  into  the  river,  and  so 
should  I  if  I  had  the  courage!" 

"Stop,  Patty,  stop,  dear!  You  shall  have  your 
bit  of  pasture,  at  least.  I'll  do  some  of  your 
indoor  tasks  for  you,  and  you  shall  put  on  your 
sunbonnet  and  go  out  and  dig  the  dandelion 
greens  for  dinner.  Take  the  broken  knife  and  a 
inilkpan  and  don't  bring  in  so  much  earth  with 
them  as  you  did  last  time.  Dry  your  eyes  and 
look  at  the  green  things  growing.  Remember  how 
young  you  are  and  how  many  years  are  ahead  of 
you!  Go  along,  dear!" 

46 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Wai  Mill  went  about  her  work  with  rather  a 
heavy  heart.  Was  life  going  to  be  more  rather 
than  less  difficult,  now  that  Patty  was  growing 
up?  Would  she  be  able  to  do  her  duty  both  by 
father  and  sister  and  keep  peace  in  the  house 
hold,  as  she  had  vowed,  in  her  secret  heart,  always 
to  do?  She  paused  every  now  and  then  to  look 
out  of  the  window  and  wave  an  encouraging 
hand  to  Patty.  The  girl's  bonnet  was  off,  and 
IHT  uncovered  head  blazed  like  red  gold  in  the 
sunlight.  The  short  young  grass  was  dotted  with 
dandelion  blooms,  some  of  them  already  grown 
to  huge  disks  of  yellow,  and  Patty  moved  hither 
and  thither,  selecting  the  younger  weeds,  deftly 
putting  the  broken  knife  under  their  roots  and 
popping  them  into  the  tin  pan.  Presently,  for 
Deacon  Baxter  had  finished  the  wagon  and  gone 
down  the  hill  to  relieve  Cephas  Cole  at  the  coun 
ter,  Patty's  shrill  young  whistle  floated  into  the 
kitchen,  but  with  a  mischievous  glance  at  the  open 
window  she  l>n>ke  off  suddenly  and  began  to  sing 
the  words  of  the  hymn  with  rather  more  emphasis 
and  gusto  than  strict  piety  warranted. 

"There'll  he  .vo///rthin^  in  lie;iv-en  for  eliil-dren  to  do, 
V'lie  ;ire  idle  in  tliiit   hless-ed  l;md; 
There'll  be  work  for  the  heart,  there '11  he  work  for  the 

mind, 
And  em/;A>//menl  for  nu-h  little  hand. 

47 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"There'll  be  some-thing  to  do, 
There'll  be  some-thing  to  do, 
There'll  be  some-thing  for  chil-dren  to  do! 
On  that  bright  blessed  shore  where  there's  joy  evermore, 
There'll  be  some-thing  for  chil-dren  to  do." 

Patty's  young  existence  being  full  to  the  brim 
of  labor,  this  view  of  heaven  never  in  the  least 
appealed  to  her  and  she  rendered  the  hymn  with 
little  sympathy.  The  main  part  of  the  verse  was 
strongly  accented  by  jabs  at  the  unoffending 
dandelion  roots,  but  when  the  chorus  came  she 
brought  out  the  emphatic  syllables  by  a  beat  of 
the  broken  knife  on  the  milkpan. 

This  rendition  of  a  Sabbath-School  classic  did 
not  meet  Waitstill's  ideas  of  perfect  propriety, 
but  she  smiled  and  let  it  pass,  planning  some  sort 
of  recreation  for  a  stolen  half-hour  of  the  after 
noon.  It  would  have  to  be  a  walk  through  the 
pasture  into  the  woods  to  see  what  had  grown 
since  they  went  there  a  fortnight  ago.  Patty 
loved  people  better  than  Nature,  but  failing  the 
one  she  could  put  up  with  the  other,  for  she  had  a 
sense  of  beauty  and  a  pagan  love  of  color.  Then* 
would  be  pale-hued  innocence  and  blue  and  white 
violets  in  the  moist  places,  thought  Waitstill, 
and  they  would  have  them  in  a  china  cup  on  the 
supper-table.  No,  that  would  never  do,  for  last 
time  father  had  knocked  them  over  when  he  was 

48 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

reaching  for  the  bread,  and  in  a  silent  protest 
against  such  foolishness  got  up  from  the  table 
and  emptied  them  into  the  kitchen  sink. 

"There's  a  place  for  everything,"  he  said 
when  he  came  back,  "and  the  place  for  flowers 
is  outdoors." 

Then  in  the  pine  woods  there  would  be,  she 
was  sure,  Star  of  Bethlehem,  Solomon's  Seal,  the 
white  spray  of  ground-nuts  and  bunchberries. 
Perhaps  they  could  make  a  bouquet  and  Patty 
would  take  it  across  the  fields  to  Mrs.  Boynton's 
door.  She  need  not  go  in,  and  thus  they  would 
not  be  disobeying  their  father's  command  not  to 
visit  that  "crazy  Boynton  woman." 

Here  Patty  came  in  with  a  pan  full  of  greens 
and  the  sisters  sat  down  in  the  sunny  window 
to  get  them  ready  for  the  pot. 

" I  'm  calmer,"  the  little  rebel  allowed.  "That 's 
generally  the  way  it  turns  out  with  inc.  I  get 
into  a  rage,  but  I  can  generally  sing  it  off!" 

"You  certainly  must  have  got  rid  of  a  good 
deal  of  temper  this  morning,  by  the  way  your 
voice  sounded." 

"Nobody  can  hear  us  in  this  out-of-the-way 
place.  It's  easy  enough  to  see  that  the  women 
were  n't  asked  to  say  anything  when  the  men  set 
tled  where  the  houses  should  l>e  built!  The  men 
were  n't  content  to  st  irk  t  hem  on  the  top  of  a  high 

49 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

hill,  or  half  a  mile  from  the  stores,  but  put  them 
back  to  the  main  road,  taking  due  care  to  cut  the 
sink-window  where  their  wives  could  n't  see  any 
thing  even  when  they  were  washing  dishes." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  thought  about  it  in 
that  way";  and  Waitstill  looked  out  of  the  win 
dow  in  a  brown  study  while  her  hands  worked 
with  the  dandelion  greens.  "I've  noticed  it,  but 
I  never  supposed  the  men  did  it  intentionally." 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  Patty  with  the 
pessimism  of  a  woman  of  ninety,  as  she  stole  an 
admiring  glance  at  her  sister.  Patty's  own  face, 
irregular,  piquant,  tantalizing,  had  its  peculiar 
charm,  and  her  brilliant  skin  and  hair  so  dazzled 
the  masculine  beholder  that  he  took  note  of  no 
small  defects;  but  Waitstill  was  beautiful;  beau 
tiful  even  in  her  working  dress  of  purple  calico. 
Her  single  braid  of  hair,  the  Foxwell  hair,  that 
in  her  was  bronze  and  in  Patty  pale  auburn,  was 
wound  once  around  her  fine  head  and  made  to 
stand  a  little  as  it  went  across  the  front.  It  was  a 
simple,  easy,  unconscious  fashion  of  her  own,  ( \  1 1  i  I  o 
different  from  anything  done  by  other  women  in 
her  time  and  place,  and  it  just  suited  her  dignity 
and  serenity.  It  looked  like  a  coronet,  but  it  was 
the  way  she  carried  her  head  that  gave  you  the 
fancy,  there  was  such  spirit  and  pride  in  the  poise 
of  it  on  the  long  graceful  neck.  Her  eyes  were  as 

50 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

clear  as  mountain  pools  shaded  by  rushes,  and 
the  strength  of  the  face  was  softened  by  the 
s\\  ret  ness  of  the  mouth. 

Patty  never  let  the  conversation  die  out  for 
many  seconds  at  a  time  and  now  she  began  again. 
"My  sudden  rages  don't  match  my  name  very 
well,  but,  of  course,  mother  did  n't  know  how  I 
was  going  to  turn  out  when  she  called  me  Pa- 
tience,  for  I  was  nothing  but  a  squirming  little 
bald,  red  baby;  but  my  name  really  is  too  ridicu 
lous  when  you  think  about  it." 

Waitstill  laughed  as  she  said:  "It  did  n't  take 
you  long  to  change  it!  Perhaps  Patience  was  a 
hard  word  for  a  baby  to  say,  but  the  moment 
you  could  talk  you  said,  *  Patty  wants  this'  and 
'Patty  wauls  that." 

"Did  Patty  ever  get  it?  She  never  has  since, 
that's  certain!  And  look  at  your  name;  it's 
1  Waitstill,'  yet  you  never  stop  a  moment.  When 
you're  not  in  the  shed  or  barn,  or  chicken-house, 
or  kitchen  or  attic,  or  garden-patch,  you  are 
working  in  the  Sunday  School  or  the  choir." 

It  seemed  as  if  Waitstill  did  not  intend  to 
answer  I  his  arraignment  of  her  activities.  Sin 
rose  and  crossed  the  room  to  put  the  pan  of 
greens  in  the  sink,  preparing  to  wash  them. 
Taking  the  long-handled  <lipper  from  the  nail. 
she  paused  a  moment  before  plunging  it  into  the 

51 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

water  pail;  paused,  and  leaning  her  elbow  on  a 
corner  of  the  shelf  over  the  sink,  looked  stead 
fastly  out  into  the  orchard. 

Patty  watched  her  curiously  and  was  just  going 
to  offer  a  penny  for  her  thoughts  when  Waitstill 
suddenly  broke  the  brief  silence  by  saying:  "Yes, 
I  am  always  busy;  it's  better  so,  but  all  the  same, 
Patty,  I'm  waiting,  —  inside!  I  don't  know  for 
what,  but  I  always  feel  that  I  am  waiting! " 


VI 

A   KISS 

"SHALL  we  have  our  walk  in  the  woods  on  the 
Edgewood  side  of  the  river,  just  for  a  change, 
Patty?"  suggested  her  sister.  "The  water  is  so 
high  this  year  that  the  river  will  be  splendid.  We 
can  gather  our  flowers  in  the  hill  pasture  and 
then  you'll  be  quite  near  Mrs.  Boynton's  and 
can  carry  the  nosegay  there  while  I  come  homo 
ahead  of  you  and  get  supper.  I'll  take  to-day's 
eggs  to  father's  store  on  the  way  and  ask  him  if 
he  minds  our  having  a  little  walk.  I  Ve  an  errand 
at  Aunt  Abby's  that  would  take  me  down  to  the 
bridge  anyway." 

"Very  well,"  said  Patty,  somewhat  apatliHi- 
cally.  " I  always  like  a  walk  with  you,  but  I  don't 
care  what  becomes  of  me  this  afternoon  if  I  can' I 
go  to  Ellen's  party." 

The  excursion  took  place  according  to  \\ail- 
st ill's  plan,  and  at  four  o'clock  she  sped  back 
to  her  ni^ht  work  and  preparations  for  supper, 
leaving  Patty  with  a  great  bunch  of  early  wild- 
flmvrrs  for  Ivory's  mother.  Patty  had  left  them 
at  the  Boyntons'  door  with  Rodman,  who  was 

53 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

picking  up  chips  and  volunteered  to  take  the 
nosegay  into  the  house  at  once. 

"Won't  you  step  inside?  "  the  boy  asked  shyly, 
wishing  to  be  polite,  but  conscious  that  visitors 
from  the  village  very  seldom  crossed  the  threshold. 

"I'd  like  to,  but  I  can't  this  afternoon,  thank 
you.  I  must  run  all  the  way  down  the  hill  now,  or 
I  shan't  be  in  time  to  supper." 

"Do  you  eat  meals  together  over  to  your 
house?"  asked  the  boy. 

"We're  all  three  at  the  table  if  that  means 
together." 

"We  never  are.  Ivory  goes  off  early  and  takes 
lunch  in  a  pail.  So  do  I  when  I  go  to  school.  Aunt 
Boynton  never  sits  down  to  eat;  she  just  stands 
at  the  window  and  takes  a  bite  of  something  now 
and  then.  You  have  n't  got  any  mother,  have 

you?" 

"No,  Rodman." 

"  Neither  have  I,  nor  any  father,  nor  any  rela 
tions  but  Aunt  Boynton  and  Ivory.  Ivory  is  very 
good  to  me,  and  when  he's  at  home  I'm  never 
lonesome." 

"I  wish  you  could  come  over  and  eat  with 
sister  and  me,"  said  Patty  gently.  "Perhaps 
sometime,  when  my  father  is  away  buying  goods 
and  we  are  left  alone,  you  could  join  us  in  the 
woods,  and  we  would  have  a  picnic?  \Ve  would 

54 


THE  STORY  OF  \Y.\ITSTILL  BAXTER 

I) ring  enough  for  you;  all  sorts  of  good  thin 
hard-boiled    eggs,   doughnuts,    apple-turnovers, 
and  bread  spread  with  jelly." 

"I'd  like  it  fine!"  exclaimed  Rodman,  his  big 
dark  eyes  sparkling  with  anticipation.  "I  don't 
have  many  boys  to  play  with,  and  I  never  went 
to  a  picnic.  Aunt  Boynton  watches  for  uncle 
'most  all  the  time;  she  doesn't  know  he  has  been 
away  for  years  and  years.  When  she  does  n't 
watch,  she  prays.  Sometimes  she  wants  me  to 
pray  with  her,  but  pray  ing  don't  come  easy  tome." 

"Neither  does  it  to  me,"  said  Patty. 

"I'm  good  at  marbles  and  checkers  and  back 
gammon  and  jack-straws,  though." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Patty,  laughing,  "so  we  should 
be  good  friends.  I'll  try  to  get  a  chance  to  see 
you  soon  again,  but  perhaps  I  can't;  I'm  a  good 
deal  tied  at  home." 

'Your  father  doesn't  like  you  to  go  any 
wheres,  I  guess,"  interposed  Rodman.  "I've 
heard  Ivory  tell  Aunt  Boynton  things,  but  I 
\\ould  n't  repeat  them.  Ivory  's  trained  me  years 
and  yean  not  to  tell  anything,  so  I  don't." 

"Thai  '«  -i  -«.od  boy!"  approved  Patty.  Then 
as  she  regarded  him  more  closely,  she  continued, 
44 I'm  sorry  you're  lonesome,  Rodman,  I'd  like 
to  see  you  look  brighter." 

"You  think  I've  been  crying,"  the  boy  said 
55 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

shrewdly.  "So  I  have,  but  not  because  I've 
been  punished.  The  reason  my  eyes  are  so 
swollen  up  is  because  I  killed  our  old  toad  by 
mistake  this  morning.  I  was  trying  to  see  if  I 
could  swing  the  scythe  so's  to  help  Ivory  in 
haying-time.  I've  only  'raked  after'  and  I  want 
to  begin  on  mowing  soon 's  I  can.  Then  somehow 
or  other  the  old  toad  came  out  from  under  the 
steps;  I  did  n't  see  him,  and  the  scythe  hit  him 
square.  I  cried  for  an  hour,  that's  what  I  did, 
and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it  except  I  would  n't 
like  the  boys  at  school  to  hector  me.  I  've  buried 
the  toad  out  behind  the  barn,  and  I  hope  Ivory '11 
let  me  keep  the  news  from  Aunt  Boy n ton.  She 
cries  enough  now  without  my  telling  her  there's 
been  a  death  in  the  family.  She  set  great  store  by 
the  old  toad,  and  so  did  all  of  us." 

"It's  too  bad;  I'm  sorry,  but  after  all  you 
could  n't  help  it." 

"No,  but  we  should  always  look  round  every  - 
wheres  when  we're  cutting;  that's  what  Ivory 
says.  He  says  folks  should  n't  use  edged  tools  till 
they're  old  enough  not  to  fool  with  Yin." 

And  Rodman  looked  so  wise  and  old-fashioned 
for  his  years  that  Patty  did  not  know  whether 
to  kiss  him  or  cry  over  him,  as  she  said:  "Ivory's 
always  right,  and  now  good-bye;  I  must  go  this 
very  minute.  Don't  forget  the  picnic." 

M 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  UAXTKR 

"I  won't!"  cried  the  hoy,  ga/ing  after  her, 

wholly  entranced   with   her  bright    beauty   and 

her  kindness.    "Say,  I'll  bring  something,  too, 

-  white-oak  acorns,  if  you  like  'em;  I've  got  a 

big  bagful  up  attic!" 

Patty  sped  down  the  long  lane,  crept  under 
the  bars,  and  flew  like  a  lapwing  over  the  high 
road. 

"If  father  was  only  like  any  one  else,  things 
might  he  so  different !"  she  sighed,  her  thoughts 
running  along  with  her  feet.  "  Nobody  to  make  a 
home  for  that  poor  lonesome  little  boy  and  that 
poor  lonesome  big  Ivory.  ...  I  am  sure  that  he 
is  in  love  with  Waitstill.  He  does  n't  know  it ;  she 
does  n't  know  it;  nobody  does  but  me,  but  I'm 
clever  at  guessing.  I  was  the  only  one  that  sur- 
1 1 1  ised  Jed  Morrill  was  going  to  marry  again.  .  .  . 
I  should  almost  like  Ivory  for  myself,  he  is  so  tall 
and  handsome,  but  of  course  he  can  never  marry 
anybody;  he  is  too  poor  and  has  his  mother  to 
look  after.  I  would  n't  want  to  take  him  from 
\\aity,  though,  and  then  perhaps  I  couldn't  get 
him,  anyway.  ...  If  I  could  n't,  he'd  be  the  only 
one!  I've  never  tried  yet,  but  I  feel  in  my  bom •<, 
somehow,  that  I  could  have  any  boy  in  Ed 
wood  or  Hiverboro,  by  just  crooking  my  forefin 
ger  and  heekomng  to  him.  ...  I  wMi  -I  wi-li 

t  hey  were  different !  They  don't  make  me  want 
57 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

to  beckon  to  them!  My  forefinger  just  stays 
straight  and  does  n't  feel  like  crooking!  .  .  . 
There's  Cephas  Cole,  but  he's  as  stupid  as  an 
owl.  I  don't  want  a  husband  that  keeps  his 
mouth  wide  open  whenever  I  'm  talking,  no  mat 
ter  whether  it's  sense  or  nonsense.  There's  Phil 
Perry,  but  he  likes  Ellen,  and  besides  he's  too 
serious  for  me;  and  there's  Mark  Wilson;  he's 
the  best  dressed,  and  the  only  one  that's  been  to 
college.  He  looks  at  me  all  the  time  in  meeting, 
and  asked  me  if  I  would  n't  take  a  walk  some 
Sunday  afternoon.  I  know  he  planned  Ellen's 
party  hoping  I'd  be  there!  —  Goodness  gracious, 
I  do  believe  that  is  his  horse  coming  behind  me! 
There 's  no  other  in  the  village  that  goes  at  such 
a  gait!" 

It  was,  indeed,  Mark  Wilson,  who  always 
drove,  according  to  Aunt  Abby  Cole,  "as  if  he 
was  goin'  for  a  doctor."  He  caught  up  with 
Patty  almost  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  but  she 
was  ready  for  him.  She  had  taken  off  her  sun- 
bonnet  just  to  twirl  it  by  the  string,  she  was  so 
warm  with  walking,  and  in  a  jiffy  she  had  lifted 
the  clustering  curls  from  her  ears,  tucked  them 
back  with  a  single  expert  movement,  and  dis 
closed  two  coral  pendants  just  the  color  of  her 
ear-tips  and  her  glowing  cheeks. 

"Hello,  Patty!"  the  young  man  called,  in 
58 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

brusque  country  fashion,  as  he  reined  up  beside 
her.  "\\hat  are  you  doing  over  here?  Why 
are  n't  you  on  your  way  to  the  party?  I've  been 
over  to  Limington  and  am  breaking  my  neck  to 
get  home  in  time  myself." 

"I  am  not  going;  there  are  no  parties  for  me!" 
said  Patty  plaintively. 

"Not  going!  Oh!  I  say,  what's  the  matter? 
It  won't  be  a  bit  of  fun  without  you!  Ellen  and 
I  made  it  up  expressly  for  you,  thinking  your 
father  could  n't  object  to  a  candy-pull!" 

"I  can't  help  it;  I  did  the  best  I  could.  Wait- 
still  always  asks  father  for  me,  but  I  would  n't 
take  any  chances  to-day,  and  I  spoke  to  him  my 
self;  indeed  I  almost  coaxed  him!" 

"He's  a   regular  old  skinflint!"  cried  Mark, 
getting  out  of  the  wagon  and  walking  beside  her. 
*  You  must  n't  call  him  names,"  Patty  inter 
posed  with  some  dignity.    "I  call  him  a  good 
many  myself,  but  I  'm  his  daughter." 

'You  don't  look  it,"  said  Mark  admiringly. 
"Come  and  have  a  little  ride,  won't  you?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  possibly,  thank  you.  Some 
one  wrould  be  sure  to  see  us,  and  father's  so 
strict" 

'There  U  n't  a  building  for  half  a  mile!  Just 
jump  in  and  have  a  spin  till  we  come  to  the  first 
house;  then  I'll  let  you  out  and  yon  can  walk  the 

59 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

rest  of  the  way  home.  Come,  do,  and  make  up 
to  me  a  little  for  my  disappointment.  I'll  skip 
the  candy-pull  if  you  say  the  word." 

It  was  an  incredibly  brief  drive,  at  Mark's 
rate  of  speed;  and  as  exciting  and  blissful  as  it 
was  brief  and  dangerous,  Patty  thought.  Did  she 
imagine  it,  or  did  Mark  help  her  into  the  wagon 
differently  from  —  old  Dr.  Perry,  for  instance? 

The  fresh  breeze  lifted  the  gold  thread  of  her 
curls  and  gave  her  cheeks  a  brighter  color,  while 
her  breath  came  fast  through  her  parted  lips 
and  her  eyes  sparkled  at  the  unexpected,  unac 
customed  pleasure.  She  felt  so  grown  up,  so 
conscious  of  a  new  power  as  she  sat  enthroned  on 
the  little  wagon  seat  (Mark  Wilson  always  liked 
his  buggies  "courtin5  size"  so  the  neighbors 
said),  that  she  was  almost  courageous  enough 
to  agree  to  make  a  royal  progress  through  the 
village;  almost,  but  not  quite. 

"Come  on,  let's  shake  the  old  tabbies  up  and 
start  'em  talking,  shall  we?"  Mark  suggested. 
"I'll  give  you  the  reins  and  let  Nero  have  a  flick 
of  the  whip." 

"No,  I'd  rather  not  drive,"  she  said.  "I'd 
be  afraid  of  this  horse,  and,  anyway,  I  must  get 
out  this  very  minute;  yes,  I  really  must.  If  you 
hold  Nero  I  can  just  slip  down  between  the  wheels; 
you  need  n't  help  me." 

60 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Mark  alighted  notwithstanding  her  objections, 
saying  gallantly,  "  I  don't  miss  this  pleasure,  not 
by  a  jugful!  Come  along!  Jump!" 

Patty  stretched  out  her  hands  to  be  helped, 
but  Mark  forestalled  her  by  putting  his  arms 
around  her  and  lifting  her  down.  A  second  of  time 
only  was  involved,  but  in  that  second  he  held 
h«r  close  and  kissed  her  warm  cheek,  her  cheek 
that  had  never  felt  the  touch  of  any  lips  but  those 
of  Waitstill.  She  pulled  her  sunbonnet  over  her 
flaming  face,  while  Mark,  with  a  gay  smile  of 
farewell,  sprang  into  the  wagon  and  gave  his 
horse  a  free  rein. 

Patty  never  looked  up  from  the  road,  but 
walked  faster  and  faster,  her  heart  beating  at 
breakneck  speed.  It  was  a  changed  world  that 
spun  past  her;  fright,  triumph,  shame,  delight, 
gratified  vanity  swam  over  her  in  turn. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  heard  once  more  the 
rumble  of  wheels  on  the  road.  It  was  Cephas 
Cole  driving  towards  her  over  the  brow  of  Saco 
Hill.  "He'll  have  seen  Mark/'  she  thought, 
"but  he  can't  know  I've  talked  and  driven 
with  him.  Ugh!  how  stupid  and  common  he 

looks!" 

"I  heard  your  father  blowin'  the  supper-horn 
jest  as  I  come  over  the  bridge,"  remarked  ( Yphas, 
drawing  up  in  the  road.  "He  stood  in  the  door- 

61 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

yard  blowin'  like  Bedlam.  I  guess  you  're  late  to 
supper." 

"I'll  be  home  in  a  few  minutes,"  said  Patty, 
"  I  got  delayed  and  am  a  little  behindhand." 

"  I  '11  turn  right  round  if  you  '11  git  in  and  lemme 
take  you  back-along  a  piece;  it'll  save  you  a 
good  five  minutes,"  begged  Cephas,  abjectly. 

"All  right;  much  obliged;  but  it's  against  the 
rules  and  you  must  drop  me  at  the  foot  of  our 
hill  and  let  me  walk  up." 

"Certain;  I  know  the  Deacon  'n'  I  ain't 
huntin'  for  trouble  any  more'n  you  be;  though 
I  'd  take  it  quick  enough  if  you  jest  give  me  leave ! 
I  ain't  no  coward  an'  I  could  tackle  the  Deacon 
to-morrow  if  so  be  I  had  anything  to  ask  him." 

This  seemed  to  Patty  a  line  of  conversation 
distinctly  to  be  discouraged  under  all  the  cir 
cumstances,  and  she  tried  to  keep  Cephas  on 
the  subject  of  his  daily  tasks  and  his  mother's 
rheumatism  until  she  could  escape  from  his  over- 
appreciative  society. 

"How  do  you  like  my  last  job?"  he  inquired 
as  they  passed  his  father's  house.  "Some  think 
I  Ve  got  the  ell  a  little  dite  too  yaller.  Folks  that 
ain't  never  handled  a  brush  allers  think  they  can 
mix  paint  better 'n  them  that  knows  their  trade." 

"If  your  object  was  to  have  everybody  see  the 
ell  a  mile  away,  you've  succeeded,"  said  Patty 

62 


THE  STORY  OF  \\AITSTILL  BAXTER 

cruelly.  She  never  flung  the  poor  boy  a  civil  word 
for  fear  of  getting  something  warmer  than  civility 
in  return. 

"It'll  tone  down,"  Cephas  responded,  rather 
crestfallen.  "  I  wanted  a  good  bright  lastin'  sha<  lr. 
'T  won't  look  so  yallrr  when  father  lets  me  paint 
the  house  to  match,  but  that  won't  be  till  next 
year.  He  makes  fun  of  the  yaller  color  same  as 
you;  says  a  home's  something  you  want  to  for 
get  when  you  're  away  from  it.  Mother  says  the 
two  rooms  of  the  ell  are  big  enough  for  somebody 
to  set  up  housekeepin'  in.  What  do  you  think?" 

"I  never  think/'  returned  Patty  with  a  tanta 
lizing  laugh.  "Good-night,  Cephas;  thank  you 
for  giving  me  a  lift!" 


VII 

"  WHAT    DREAMS    MAY    COME  " 

SUPPER  was  over  and  the  work  done  at  last;  the 
dishes  washed,  the  beans  put  in  soak,  the  hens 
shut  up  for  the  night,  the  milk  strained  and  car 
ried  down  cellar.  Patty  went  up  to  her  little 
room  with  the  one  window  and  the  slanting  walls 
and  Waitstill  followed  and  said  good-night.  Her 
father  put  out  the  lights,  locked  the  doors,  and 
came  up  the  creaking  stairs.  There  was  never 
any  talk  between  the  sisters  before  going  to  bed, 
save  on  nights  when  their  father  was  late  at  the 
store,  usually  on  Saturdays  only,  for  the  good 
talkers  of  the  village,  as  well  as  the  gossips  and 
loafers,  preferred  any  other  place  to  swap  stories 
than  the  bleak  atmosphere  provided  by  old  Foxy 
at  his  place  of  business. 

Patty  could  think  in  the  dark;  her  healthy 
young  body  lying  not  uncomfortably  on  the  bed 
of  corn  husks,  and  the  patchwork  comforter 
drawn  up  under  her  chin.  She  could  think,  but 
for  the  first  time  she  could  not  tell  her  thoughts 
to  Waitstill.  '  She  had  a  secret;  a  dazzling  secret, 
just  like  Ellen  Wilson  and  some  of  the  other  girls 
who  were  several  years  older.  Her  afternoon's 

64 


THE  STORY  OF  \V.\n STILL  BAXTER 

experience  loomed  as  large  in  her  innocent  mind 
as  if  it  had  been  an  elopement. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  engaged  to  be  married  to 
him,  cren  if  he  did  -  The  sentence  was  too  tre 
mendous  to  be  finished,  even  in  thought.  "  I  don't 
think  I  can  be;  men  must  surely  say  something, 
and  not  take  it  for  granted  you  are  in  love  with 
them  and  want  to  marry  them.  It  is  what  they 
say  when  they  ask  that  I  should  like,  much  bet 
ter  than  bring  married,  when  1  'in  only  just  past 
seventeen.  I  wish  Mark  was  a  little  different; 
I  don't  like  his  careless  ways!  He  admires  me, 
I  can  trll  that  by  the  way  he  looks,  but  he  ad 
mires  himself  just  as  much,  and  expects  me  to 
do  the  same;  still,  I  suppose  none  of  them  are 
perfect,  and  girls  have  to  forgive  lots  of  little 
things  when  they  are  engaged.  Mother  must 
have  forgiven  a  good  many  things  when  she  took 
father.  Anyway,  Mark  is  going  away  for  a  month 
on  business,  so  I  shan't  have  to  make  up  my 
mind  just  yet!"  Here  sleep  descended  upon  the 
slightly  puzzled,  but  on  the  whole  delightfully 
complacent,  little  creature,  bringing  her  most 
alluring  and  untrust  worthy  dreams. 

The  dear  innocent  had,  indeed,  no  need  of 
h.-i-te!  Young  Mr .  Marquis  de  Lafayette  Wilson, 
Mark  for  short ,  was  not  in  the  least  a  gay  deceiver 
or  ruthless  breaker  of  hearts,  and,  so  far  as  known, 

66 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

no  scalps  of  village  beauties  were  hung  to  his  belt. 
He  was  a  likable,  light-weight  young  chap,  as 
indolent  and  pleasure-loving  as  the  strict  cus 
toms  of  the  community  would  permit;  and  a  kiss, 
in  his  mind,  most  certainly  never  would  lead  to 
the  altar,  else  he  had  already  been  many  times 
a  bridegroom.  Miss  Patience  Baxter's  maiden 
meditations  and  uncertainties  and  perplexities, 
therefore,  were  decidedly  premature.  She  was  a 
natural-born,  unconsciously  artistic,  highly  ex 
pert,  and  finished  coquette.  She  was  all  this  at 
seventeen,  and  Mark  at  twenty -four  was  by  no 
means  a  match  for  her  in  this  field  of  effort,  yet! 
-  but  sometimes,  in  getting  her  victim  into  the 
net,  the  coquette  loses  her  balance  and  falls  in 
herself.  There  was  n't  a  bit  of  harm  in  Marquis  de 
Lafayette,  but  he  was  extremely  agile  in  keeping 
out  of  nets ! 

Waitstill  was  restless,  too,  that  night,  although 
she  could  not  have  told  the  reason.  She  opened 
her  window  at  the  back  of  the  house  and  leaned 
out.  The  evening  was  mild  with  a  soft  wind 
blowing.  She  could  hear  the  full  brook  dashing 
through  the  edge  of  the  wood-lot,  and  even  the 
"ker-chug"  of  an  occasional  bull-frog.  There 
were  great  misty  stars  in  the  sky,  but  no  moon. 
There  was  no  light  in  Aunt  Abby  Cole's 
kitchen,  but  a  faint  glimmer  shone  through  the 

66 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

windows  of  I'nele  Bart's  joiner's  shop,  showing 
that  the  old  man  was  cither  having  an  hour  of 
peaceful  contemplation  with  no  companion  but 
his  pipe,  or  that  there  might  be  a  little  group  of 
privileged  visitors,  headed  by  Jed  Morrill,  bus 
ily  discussing  the  affairs  of  the  nation. 

Waitstill  felt  troubled  and  anxious  to-night; 
bruised  by  the  little  daily  torments  that  lessened 
her  courage  but  never  wholly  destroyed  it.   Any 
one  who  believed  implicitly  in  heredity  might 
have  been  puzzled,  perhaps,  to  account  for  her. 
He  might  fantastically  picture  her  as  making 
herself  out  of  her  ancestors,  using  a  free  hand, 
picking  and  choosing  what  she  liked  best,  with 
due  care  for  the  effect  of  combinations;  selecting 
here  and    there  and  modifying,  if  advisable,   a 
trait  of  Grandpa  or  (irandma  Foxwell,  of  Great- 
Uncle  or  Great -Aunt    Baxter;  borrowing  <jiiali- 
tics  lavishly  from  her  own  gently  horn  and  gently 
bred  mother,  and  carefully  avoiding  her  respected 
father's  >|<>rk.  except,  perhaps,  to  take  a  dash  of 
his  pluck  and  an  ounce  of  his  persistence.    Jed 
Morrill  remarked  of  Deacon  Baxter  once:  "\Vhen 
Old    Foxy    vrantfl    anything    he'll    wait    till    hell 
fa*M  OVtt  afore  he'll  .u'ive  up."  \Vaitstill  had 
her    father's    firm    chin,   but   there    the   likeness 
ended.  The  proud  curve  of  her  nostrils,  the  clear, 
well-opened  eye  with  its  deep  fringe  of  lashes, 

67 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

the  earnest  mouth,  all  these  came  from  the  mother 
who  was  little  more  than  a  dim  memory. 

Waitstill  disdained  any  vague,  dreary,  color 
less  theory  of  life  and  its  meaning.  She  had  joined 
the  church  at  fifteen,  more  or  less  because  other 
girls  did  and  the  parson  had  persuaded  her;  but 
out  of  her  hard  life  she  had  somehow  framed  a 
courageous  philosophy  that  kept  her  erect  and 
uncrushed,  no  matter  how  great  her  difficulties. 
She  had  no  idea  of  bringing  a  poor,  weak,  draggled 
soul  to  her  Maker  at  the  last  day,  saying:  "Here 
is  all  I  have  managed  to  save  out  of  what  you 
gave  me!"  That  would  be  something,  she  al 
lowed,  immeasurably  something;  but  pitiful  com 
pared  with  what  she  might  do  if  she  could  keep 
a  brave,  vigorous  spirit  and  march  to  the  last 
tribunal  strengthened  by  battles,  struggles,  de 
feats,  victories;  by  the  defence  of  weaker  human 
creatures,  above  all,  warmed  and  vitalized  by  the 
pouring  out  and  gathering  in  of  love. 

Patty  slept  sweetly  on  the  other  side  of  the 
partition,  the  contemplation  of  her  twopenny 
triumphs  bringing  a  smile  to  her  childish  lips;  but 
even  so  a  good  heart  was  there  (still  perhaps  in  the 
process  of  making),  a  quick  wit,  ready  sympathy, 
natural  charm;  plenty,  indeed,  for  the  stronger 
sister  to  cherish,  protect,  and  hold  precious,  as 
she  did,  with  all  her  mind  and  soul. 

68 


THE  STORY  OF  \\~AIT-TILL  BAXTER 

There  had   always  been  a  passionate  loyalty 
in   NYaitslill's    all'erlion,  wherever   it    had   been 
bolowed.    Uncle    Bart    delimited    in    telling   an 
instance  of  it  that  occurred  when  she  was  a  child 
of  five.    Maine  had  just  separated  amicably  from 
her  mother,  Massachusetts,  and  become  an  inde 
pendent  state.    It  was  in  the  middle  of  March, 
but    there  was  no  snow  on  the  ground  and  the 
village  boys  had  built  a  bonfire  on  a  plot  of  land 
near  Uncle  Bart's  joiner's  shop.  There  was  a  large 
gathering  in  celebration  of  the  historic  event  and 
\Vait>till  crept  down  the  hill  with  her  home-made 
rag  doll  in  her  arms.   She  stood  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  crowd,  a  silent,  absorbed  little  figure  dad 
in  a  shabby  woollen  coat,  with  a  bine  knit  hood 
framing  her  rosy  face.  Deborah,  her  beloved,  her 
only  doll,  was  tightly  clasped  in  her  arms,  for 
Debby,  like  her  parent,  had  few  pleasures  and 
must  not  be  denied  so  great  a  one  as  this.   Sud 
denly,  one  of  the  thoughtless  young  scamps  in 
I  he  -roup,  wishing  to  create  a  new  sensation  and 
add  to  the  general  excitement,  caught  the  doll 
from  the  child's  arms,  and  running  forward  with 
a  loud  war-whoop,  thing  it  into  the  flames.    \Yait- 
>lill  did  not  lo-e  an   instant.     She  gave  a  scream 
of  anurui>h.:md  without  -i vim:  any  warning  of  her 
intentions,  probably  without  reali/in-  them  her 
self,  she  dashed  through  the  lit  t  le  crowd  into  the 

69 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

bonfire  and  snatched  her  cherished  offspring  from 
the  burning  pile.  The  whole  thing  was  over  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  for  Uncle  Bart  was  as  quick 
as  the  child  and  dragged  her  out  of  the  imminent 
danger  with  no  worse  harm  done  than  a  good 
scorching. 

He  led  the  little  creature  up  the  hill  to  explain 
matters  and  protect  her  from  a  scolding.  She  still 
held  the  doll  against  her  heaving  breast,  saying, 
between  her  sobs :  "  I  could  n't  let  my  Debby  burn 
up!  I  couldn't,  Uncle  Bart;  she's  got  nobody 
but  me!  Is  my  dress  scorched  so  much  I  can't 
wear  it?  You  '11  tell  father  how  it  was,  Uncle  Bart, 
won't  you?" 

Debby  bore  the  marks  of  her  adventure  longer 
than  her  owner,  for  she  had  been  longer  in 
the  fire,  but,  stained  and  defaced  as  she  was,  she 
was  never  replaced,  and  remained  the  only  doll  of 
Waitstill's  childhood.  At  this  very  moment  she 
lay  softly  and  safely  in  a  bureau  drawer  ready 
to  be  lifted  out,  sometime,  Waitstill  fancied,  ;m<l 
shown  tenderly  to  Patty's  children.  Of  her  own 
possible  children  she  never  thought.  There  was 
but  one  man  in  the  world  who  could  ever  be  the 
father  of  them  and  she  was  separated  from  him 
by  every  obstacle  that  could  divide  two  human 
beings. 


SUMMER 


VIII 

THE  JOINER'S  SHOP 

VILLAGE  "Aunts"  and  "Uncles"  were  elected 
to  that  relationship  by  the  common  consent  of 
the  community;  their  fitness  being  established 
by  great  age,  by  decided  individuality  or  eccen 
tricity  of  character,  by  uncommon  lovablene>-, 
or  by  the  possession  of  an  abundant  wit  and 
humor.  There  was  no  formality  about  the  thing; 
certain  women  were  always  called  "Aunt  Sukie," 
or  "Aunt  Kitty,"  or  what  not,  while  certain  men 
were  distinguished  as  "Uncle  Rish,"  or  "Uncle 
Pel,"  without  previous  arrangement,  or  the  con 
sent  of  the  high  contracting  parties. 

Such  a  couple  were  Cephas  Cole's  father  and 
mother,  Aunt  Abby  and  Uncle  Bart.  Bartholo 
mew  Cole's  trade  was  that  of  a  joiner;  as  for 
Aunt  Abby's,  it  can  only  be  said  that  she  made 
all  trades  her  own  by  sovereign  right  of  in 
vestigation,  and  what  she  did  not  know  about 
her  neighbor's  occupations  was  unlikely  to  be 
discovered  on  this  side  of  Jordan.  One  of  the  vil 
lagers  declared  that  Aunt  Abby  and  her  neighbor, 
Mrs.  Abel  Day,  had  argued  for  an  hour  before 
they  could  make  a  bargain  about  the  method  of 

78 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

disseminating  a  certain  important  piece  of  news, 
theirs  by  exclusive  right  of  discovery  and  prior 
possession.  Mrs.  Day  offered  to  give  Mrs.  Cole 
the  privilege  of  Saco  Hill  and  Aunt  Betty-Jack's, 
she  herself  to  take  Guide-Board  and  Town-House 
Hills.  Aunt  Abby  quickly  proved  the  injustice 
of  this  decision,  saying  that  there  were  twice  as 
many  families  living  in  Mrs.  Day's  chosen  terri 
tory  as  there  were  in  that  allotted  to  her,  so  the 
river  road  to  Milliken's  Mills  was  grudgingly 
awarded  to  Aunt  Abby  by  way  of  compromise, 
and  the  ladies  started  on  what  was  a  tour  of 
mercy  in  those  days,  the  furnishing  of  a  subject 
of  discussion  for  long,  quiet  evenings. 

Uncle  Bart's  joiner's  shop  was  at  the  foot  of 
Guide-Board  Hill  on  the  Riverboro  side  of  the 
bridge,  and  it  was  the  pleasantest  spot  in  the  whole 
village.  The  shop  itself  had  a  cheery  look,  with 
its  weather-stained  shingles,  its  small  square 
windows,  and  its  hospitable  door,  half  as  big  as 
the  front  side  of  the  building.  The  step  was  an 
old  millstone  too  worn  for  active  service,  and  the 
piles  of  chips  and  shavings  on  each  side  of  it  had 
been  there  for  so  many  years  that  sweet-williams, 
clove  pinks,  and  purple  phlox  were  growing  in 
among  them  in  the  most  irresponsible  fashion; 
while  a  morning-glory  vine  had  crept  up  and 
curled  around  a  long-handled  rake  that  had  been 

74 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

standing  against  the  front  of  the  house  since 
early  spring.  There  was  an  air  of  cosy  and  ami 
able  disorder  about  the  place  that  would  have 
invited  friendly  confabulation  even  had  not 
Uncle  Bart's  white  head,  honest,  ruddy  face,  and 
smiling  welcome  coaxed  you  in  before  you  were 
a  ware.  A  fine  Nodhead  apple  tree  shaded  the 
side  windows,  and  underneath  it  reposed  all 
summer  a  bright  blue  sleigh,  for  Uncle  Bart 
always  described  himself  as  being  "plagued  for 
shed  room"  and  kept  things  as  he  liked  at  the 
shop,  having  a  "  p'ison  neat ' '  wife  who  did  exactly 
the  opposite  at  his  house. 

The  seat  of  the  sleigh  was  all  white  now  with 
scattered  fruit  blossoms,  and  one  of  WaitstilFs 
earliest  remembrances  was  of  going  downhill 
with  Patty  toddling  at  her  side;  of  Uncle  Bart's 
lifting  them  into  the  sleigh  and  permitting  them 
to  sit  there  and  eat  the  ripe  red  apples  that  had 
fallen  from  the  tree.  Uncle  Bart's  son,  Cephas 
(Patty's  secret  adorer),  was  a  painter  by  trade, 
and  kept  his  pots  and  cans  and  brushes  in  a  little 
outhouse  at  the  back,  while  Uncle  Bart  him^li 
stood  every  day  behind  his  long  joiner's  bench 
almost  knee-deep  in  shavings.  How  the  child 
ren  loved  to  play  with  the  white,  satiny  t 
making  them  into  necklaces,  hanging  them  to 
their  ears  and  weaving  them  into  wreaths. 

75 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Wonderful  houses  could  always  be  built  in  the 
corner  of  the  shop,  out  of  the  little  odds  and  ends 
and  "nubbins"  of  white  pine,  and  Uncle  Bart 
was  ever  ready  to  cut  or  saw  a  special  piece  needed 
for  some  great  purpose. 

The  sound  of  the  plane  was  sweet  music  in  the 
old  joiner's  ears.  "I  don't  hardly  know  how  I'd 
'a'  made  out  if  I'd  had  to  work  in  a  mill,"  he 
said  confidentially  to  Cephas.  'The  noise  of 
a  saw  goin'  all  day,  coupled  with  your  mother's 
tongue  mornin's  an'  evenin's,  would  'a'  been  too 
much  for  my  weak  head.  I'm  a  quiet  man, 
Cephas,  a  man  that  needs  a  peaceful  shop  where 
he  can  get  away  from  the  comforts  of  home  now 
and  then,  without  shirkin'  his  duty  nor  causin' 
gossip.  If  you  should  ever  marry,  Cephas,  — 
which  don't  look  to  me  likely  without  you  pick 
out  a  dif rent  girl,  --I'd  advise  you  not  to  keep 
your  stock  o'  paints  in  the  barn  or  the  shed,  for 
it's  altogether  too  handy  to  the  house  and  the 
women-folks.  Take  my  advice  and  have  a  place  to 
yourself,  even  if  it's  a  small  one.  A  shop  or  a 
barn  has  saved  many  a  man's  life  and  reason, 
Cephas,  for  it's  ag'in'  a  woman's  nature  to  have 
you  underfoot  in  the  house  without  hectorin' 
you.  Choose  a  girl  same 's  you  would  a  horse  that 
you  want  to  hitch  up  into  a  span;  't  ain't  every 
two  that'll  stan'  together  without  kickin'.  When 

76 


Tin-:  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

you  get  the  right  girl,  keep  out  of  her  way  con- 
sid'able  an'  there'll  be  less  wear  an'  tear." 

It  was  June  and  the  countryside  was  so  beau 
tiful  it  seemed  as  if  no  one  could  be  unhappy, 
however  great  the  cause.  That  was  what  Wait- 
still  Baxter  thought  as  she  sat  down  on  the  mill 
stone  step  for  a  word  with  the  old  joiner,  her  best 
and  most  understanding  friend  in  all  the  village. 

"I've  come  to  do  my  mending  here  with  you," 
she  said  brightly,  as  she  took  out  her  wTell-filled 
basket  and  threaded  her  needle.  "  Is  n't  it  a  won 
derful  morning?  Nobody  could  look  the  world 
in  the  face  and  do  a  wrong  thing  on  such  a  day, 
could  they,  Uncle  Bart?" 

The  meadows  were  a  waving  mass  of  golden 
buttercups;  the  shallow  water  at  the  river's  edge 
just  below  the  shop  was  blue  with  spikes  of  arrow- 
weed;  a  bunch  of  fragrant  water-lilies,  gathered! 
from  the  mill-pond's  upper  levels,  lay  beside* 
Waitstill's  mending-basket,  and  every  foot  of 
roadside  and  field  within  sight  was  swaying  with 
long-stemmed  white  and  gold  daisies.  The  June 
grass,  the  friendly,  humble,  companionable  grass, 
that  no  one  ever  praises  as  they  do  the  flowers, 
was  a  rich  emerald  green,  a  velvet  carpet  fit  for 
the  feet  of  the  angels  themselves.  And  the  elms 
and  maples!  Was  there  ever  such  a  year  for 
richness  of  foliage?  And  the  sky,  was  it  ever  so 

77 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

blue  or  so  clear,  so  far  away,  or  so  completely 
like  heaven,  as  you  looked  at  its  reflection  in  the 
glassy  surface  of  the  river? 

"Yes,  it's  a  pretty  good  day,"  allowed  Uncle 
Bart  judicially  as  he  took  a  squint  at  his  T- 
square.  "I  don'  know's  I  should  want  to  start 
out  an'  try  to  beat  it !  The  Lord  can  make  a  good 
many  kinds  o'  weather  in  the  course  of  a  year, 
but  when  He  puts  his  mind  on  to  it,  an'  kind  o' 
gives  Himself  a  free  hand,  He  can  turn  out  a  June 
mornin'  that  must  make  the  Devil  sick  to  his 
stomach  with  envy!  All  the  same,  Waity,  my 
cow  ain't  behavin'  herself  any  better 'n  usual. 
She's  been  rampagin'  since  sun-up.  I've  seen 
mother  chasin'  her  out  o'  Mis'  Day's  garden- 
patch  twice  a'ready !  -  -  It  seems  real  good  an* 
homey  to  see  you  settin'  there  sewin'  while  I'm 
workin'  at  the  bench.  Cephas  is  down  to  the 
store,  so  I  s'pose  your  father's  off  somewheres?" 

Perhaps  the  June  grass  was  a  little  greener,  the 
buttercups  yellower,  the  foliage  more  lacey,  the 
sky  bluer,  because  Deacon  Baxter  had  taken  his 
luncheon  in  a  pail  under  the  wagon  seat,  and 
departed  on  an  unwilling  journey  to  Moderation, 
his  object  being  to  press  the  collection  of  some 
accounts  too  long  overdue.  There  wras  something 
tragic  in  the  fact,  Waitstill  thought,  that  when 
ever  her  father  left  the  village  for  a  whole  day, 

78 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

lift  at  once  grew  brighter,  easier,  more  hopeful. 
One  could  breathe  freely,  speak  one's  heart  out, 
believe  in  the  future,  when  father  was  away. 

The  girls  had  harbored  many  delightful  plans  at 
early  breakfast.  As  it  was  Saturday,  Patty  could 
catch  little  Rod  Boynton,  if  he  came  to  the  bridge 
on  errands  as  usual ;  and  if  Ivory  could  spare  him 
for  an  hour  at  noon  they  would  take  their  lunch 
eon  and  eat  it  together  on  the  river-bank  as  Patty 
had  promised  him.  At  the  last  moment,  however, 
Deacon  Baxter  had  turned  around  in  the  wagon 
and  said :  "  Patience,  you  go  down  to  the  store  and 
have  a  regular  house-cleanin'  in  the  stock-room. 
Git  Cephas  to  lift  what  you  can't  lift  yourself, 
move  everything  in  the  place,  sweep  and  dust  it, 
scrub  the  floor,  wash  the  winder,  and  make  room 
for  the  new  stuff  that  they'll  bring  up  from  M  ill- 
town  'bout  noon.  If  you  have  any  time  left  over, 
put  new  papers  on  the  shelves  out  front,  and  clean 
up  and  fix  the  show  winder.  Don't  stand  round 
gabbin'  with  Cephas,  and  see't  he  don't  waste 
time  that  's  paid  for  by  me.  Tell  him  he  might 
(lean  up  the  terbaccer  stains  round  the  stove, 
black  it,  and  cover  it  up  for  the  summer  if  he 
ain't  too  busy  servin'  customers." 

' The  whole  day  spoiled!"  wailed  Patty,  fling 
ing  herself  down  in  the  kitchen  rocker.  "Father's 
powers  of  invention  heat  anything  I  ever  saw' 

79 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

That  stock-room  could  have  been  cleaned  any 
time  this  month  and  it's  too  heavy  work  for  me 
anyway;  it  spoils  my  hands,  grubbing  around 
those  nasty,  sticky,  splintery  boxes  and  barrels. 
Instead  of  being  out  of  doors,  I  've  got  to  be  shut 
up  in  that  smelly,  rummy,  tobacco-y,  salt-fishy, 
pepperminty  place  with  Cephas  Cole!  He  won't 
have  a  pleasant  morning,  I  can  tell  you!  I  shall 
snap  his  head  off  every  time  he  speaks  to  me." 

"  So  I  would ! "  Waitstill  answered  composedly. 
"Everything  is  so  clearly  his  fault  that  I  cer 
tainly  would  work  off  my  temper  on  Cephas! 
Still,  I  can  think  of  a  way  to  make  matters  come 
out  right.  I've  got  a  great  basket  of  mending 
that  must  be  done,  and  you  remember  there's  a 
choir  rehearsal  for  the  new  anthem  this  afternoon, 
but  anyway  I  can  help  a  little  on  the  cleaning. 
Then  you  can  make  Rodman  do  a  few  of  the  odd 
jobs,  it  will  be  a  novelty  to  him;  and  Cephas  will 
work  his  fingers  to  the  bone  for  you,  as  you  well 
know,  if  you  treat  him  like  a  human  being." 

"All  right!"  cried  Patty  joyously,  her  mood 
changing  in  an  instant.  "There's  Rod  coming 
over  the  bridge  now !  Toss  me  my  gingham  apron 
and  the  scrubbing-brush,  and  the  pail,  and  the  tin 
of  soft  soap,  and  the  cleaning-cloths;  let 's  see,  the 
broom's  down  there,  so  I've  got  everything.  If 
I  wave  a  towel  from  the  store,  pack  up  luncheon 

80 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

for  thnv.  You  come  down  and  bring  your  mend 
ing  ;  t  hrn,  \vluMi  you  see  how  I  'm  getting  on,  we  can 
consult.  I  'm  going  to  take  the  ten  cents  I  've 
saved  and  spend  it  in  raisins.  I  can  get  a  good 
many  if  Cephas  gives  me  wholesale  price,  with 
family  discount  substracted  from  that.  Cephas 
would  treat  me  to  candy  in  a  minute,  but  if  I  let 
him  we'd  have  to  ask  him  to  the  picnic!  Good 
bye!"  And  the  volatile  creature  darted  down  the 
hill  singing,  "There'll  be  something  in  heaven 
for  children  to  do,"  at  the  top  of  her  healthy 
young  lungs. 


IX 

CEPHAS   SPEAKS 

THE  waving  signal,  a  little  later  on,  showed  that 
Rodman  could  go  to  the  picnic,  the  fact  being 
that  he  was  having  a  holiday  from  eleven  o'clock 
until  two,  and  Ivory  was  going  to  drive  to  the 
bridge  at  noon,  anyway,  so  his  permission  could 
then  be  asked. 

Patty's  mind  might  have  been  thought  entirely 
on  her  ugly  task  as  she  swept  and  dusted  and 
scrubbed  that  morning,  but  the  reverse  was  true. 
Mark  Wilson  had  gone  away  without  saying 
good-bye  to  her.  This  was  not  surprising,  per 
haps,  as  she  was  about  as  much  sequestered  in 
her  hilltop  prison  as  a' Turkish  beauty  in  a  harem; 
neither  was  it  astonishing  that  Mark  did  not 
write  to  her.  He  never  had  written  to  her,  and 
as  her  father  always  brought  home  the  very 
infrequent  letters  that  came  to  the  family,  Mark 
knew  that  any  sentimental  correspondence  would 
be  fraught  with  danger.  No,  everything  was 
probably  just  as  it  should  be,  and  yet,  —  well, 
Patty  had  expected  during  the  last  three  weeks 
that  something  would  happen  to  break  up  the 
monotony  of  her  fornler  existence.  She  hardly 

82 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

knew  what  it  would  be,  but  the  kiss  dropped  so 
lightly  on  her  cheek  by  Mark  Wilson  still  burned 
in  remembrance,  and  made  her  sure  that  it  would 
have  a  sequel,  or  an  explanation. 

Mark's  sister  Ellen  and  Phil  Perry  were  in  the 
midst  of  some  form  of  lover's  quarrel,  and  during 
its  progress  Phil  was  paying  considerable  atten 
tion  to  Patty  at  Sabbath  School  and  prayer- 
meeting,  occasions,  it  must  be  confessed,  only 
provocative  of  very  indirect  and  long-distance 
advances.  Cephas  Cole,  to  the  amazement  of 
every  one  but  his  (constitutionally)  exasperated 
mother,  was  "toning  down"  the  ell  of  the  family 
mansion,  mitigating  the  lively  yellow,  and  put 
ting  .mother  fresh  coat  of  paint  on  it,  for  no  con 
ceivable  reason  save  that  of  pleasing  the  eye  of 
a  certain  capricious,  ungrateful  young  hussy, 
who  would  probably  say,  when  her  verdict  was 
a>ked,  that  she  did  n't  see  any  particular  differ 
ence  in  it,  one  way  or  another. 

Trade  was  not  especially  brisk  at  the  Deacon's 
emporium  this  sunny  June  Saturday  morning. 
Cephas  may  have  possibly  lost  a  customer  or  two 
by  leaving  the  store  vacant  while  he  toiled  and 
sweated  for  Miss  Patience  Baxter  in  the  stock 
room  at  the  back,  overhanging  the  river,  but  no 
manaliveeould  B66  his  employer's  lovely  daughter 
tugging  at  a  keg  of  shingle  nails  without  trying 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

to  save  her  from  a  broken  back,  although  Cephas 
could  have  watched  his  mother  move  the  house 
and  barn  without  feeling  the  slightest  anxiety 
in  her  behalf.  If  he  could  ever  get  the  "heft"  of 
the  "doggoned"  cleaning  out  of  the  way  so  thai 
Patty's  mind  could  be  free  to  entertain  his  pro 
position  ;  could  ever  secure  one  precious  moment 
of  silence  when  she  was  not  slatting  and  bang 
ing,  pushing  and  pulling  things  about,  her  head 
and  ears  out  of  sight  under  a  shelf,  and  an  irritat 
ing  air  of  absorption  about  her  whole  demeanor; 
if  that  moment  of  silence  could  ever,  under  Pro 
vidence,  be  simultaneous  with  the  absence  of 
customers  in  the  front  shop,  Cephas  intended 
to  offer  himself  to  Patience  Baxter  that  very 
morning. 

Once,  during  a  temporary  lull  in  the  rear,  he 
started  to  meet  his  fate  when  Rodman  Boynton 
followed  him  into  the  back  room,  and  the  boy 
was  at  once  set  to  work  by  Patty,  who  was  the 
most  consummate  slave-driver  in  the  State  of 
Maine.  After  half  an  hour  there  was  another 
Heaven-sent  chance,  when  Rodman  went  up  to 
Uncle  Bart's  shop  with  a  message  for  \Vaitstill, 
but,  just  then,  in  came  Bill  Morrill,  a  boy  of 
twelve,  with  a  request  for  a  gallon  of  molasses ;  and 
would  Cephas  lend  him  a  stone  jug  over  Sunday, 
for  his  mother  had  hers  soakin'  out  in  soap-suds 

84 


THE  STORY  OF  WAIT>TILL  BAXTER 

'cause  't  wa'n't  smelliif  jest  right.   Bill's  me> 
given,  he  hurried  up  the  road  on  another  errand, 
promising  to  call  for  the  molasses  later. 

Cephas  put  the  gallon  measure  under  the 
spigot  of  the  molasses  hogshead  and  turned  on 
I  lie  tap.  The  task  was  going  to  be  a  long  one  and 
he  grew  impatient,  for  the  stream  was  only  a 
slender  trickle,  scarcely  more  than  the  slow 
dripping  of  drops,  so  the  molasses  must  be  very 
low,  and  with  his  mind  full  of  weightier  affairs 
he  must  make  a  note  to  tell  the  Deacon  to  broach 
a  new  hogshead.  Cephas  feared  that  he  could 
never  make  out  a  full  gallon,  in  which  case  Mrs. 
M orrill  would  be  vexed,  for  she  kept  mill  board 
ers  and  baked  quantities  of  brown  bread  and 
gingerbread  and  molasses  cookies  for  over 
Sunday.  He  did  \\i-h  trade  would  languish  alto 
gether  on  this  particular  morning.  The  minutes 
dragged  by  and  again  there  was  perfect  quiet  in 
the  stock-room.  As  the  door  opened,  Cephas, 
taking  his  last  chance,  went  forward  to  meet 
Patty,  who  was  turning  down  the  skirt  of  her 
dress,  taking  the  cloth  off  her  head,  smoothing 
IK  r  hair,  and  tyiiiir  on  a  clean  white  ruffled 
apron,  in  which  she  looked  as  pretty  as  a  pink. 

"P*tty!"  stammered  Cephas, seizini:  hisgolden 
opportunity,  "Patty,  keep  your  mind  on  me  for 
a  minute.  I've  put  a  new  coat  o'  paint  on  the 

85 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

ell  just  to  please  you;  won't  you  get  married  and 
settle  down  with  me?  I  love  you  so  I  can't  eat 
nor  drink  nor  'tend  store  nor  nothin'!" 

"Oh,  I  -  -  I  —  could  n't,  Cephas,  thank  you; 
I  just  could  n't,  —  don't  ask  me,"  cried  Patty, 
as  nervous  as  Cephas  himself  now  that  her  first 
offer  had  really  come;  "I'm  only  seventeen  and 
I  don't  feel  like  settling  down,  Cephas,  and  fa 
ther  would  n't  think  of  letting  me  get  married." 

"Don't  play  tricks  on  me,  Patty,  and  keep 
shovin'  me  off  so,  an'  givin'  wrong  reasons," 
pleaded  Cephas.  "What's  the  trouble  with  me? 
I  know  mother's  temper's  onsartain,  but  we 
never  need  go  into  the  main  house  daytimes  and 
father 'd  allers  stand  up  ag'in'  her  if  she  did  n't 
treat  you  right.  I  've  got  a  good  trade  and  father 
has  a  hundred  dollars  o'  my  savin's  that  I  can 
draw  out  to-morrer  if  you'll  have  me." 

"I  can't,  Cephas;  don't  move;  stay  where  you 
are;  no,  don't  come  any  nearer;  I'm  not  fond  of 
you  that  way,  and,  besides,  — and,  besides  - 

Her  blush  and  her  evident  embarrassment  gave 
Cephas  a  new  fear. 

"You  ain't  promised  a'ready,  be  you?"  he 
asked  anxiously;  "when  there  ain't  a  feller  any 
wheres  around  that's  ever  stepped  foot  over 
your  father's  doorsill  but  jest  me?" 

"I  haven't  promised  anything  or  anybody," 
86 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Patty  answered  sedately,  gaining  her  self-control 
oy  degrees,  "  but  I  won't  deny  that  I  'm  consider 
ing;  that's  true!" 

"  Considerin'  who?"  asked  Cephas,  turning 
pale. 

44  Oh,  —  several,  if  you  must  know  the  truth  "; 
and  Patty's  tone  was  cruel  in  its  jauntiness. 

"Several!"  The  word  did  not  sound  like  ordi 
nary  work-a-day  Riverboro  English  in  Cephas's 
ears.  He  knew  that  "several"  meant  more  than 
one,  but  he  was  too  stunned  to  define  the  term 
properly  in  its  present  strange  connection. 

"Whoever  'tis  wouldn't  do  any  better  by 
you'n  I  would.  I'd  take  a  lickin'  for  you  any 
day,"  Cephas  exclaimed  abjectly,  after  a  long 
pause. 

*  That  would  n't  make  any  difference,  Cephas," 
said  Patty  firmly,  moving  towards  the  front  door 
as  if  to  end  the  interview.  "If  I  don't  love  you 
imlicked,  I  could  n't  love  you  any  better  licked, 
now,  could  I?  --  Goodness  gracious,  what  am  I 
stepping  in?  Cephas,  quick!  Something  has  been 
running  all  over  the  floor.  My  feet  are  sticking 
to  it." 

"Good  Gosh!  It's  Mis'  Merrill's  molasses!" 
cried  Cephas,  brought  to  his  senses  suddenly. 

It  was  too  true!  Whatever  had  been  the  small 
obstruction  in  the  tap,  it  had  disappeared.  The 

87 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

gallon  measure  had  been  filled  to  the  brim  ten 
minutes  before,  and  ever  since,  the  treacly  liquid 
had  been  overflowing  the  top  and  spreading  in  a 
brown  flood,  unnoticed,  over  the  floor.  Patty's 
feet  were  glued  to  it,  her  buff  calico  skirts  lifted 
high  to  escape  harm. 

"I  can't  move,"  she  cried.  "Oh!  You  stupid, 
stupid  Cephas,  how  could  you  leave  the  molasses 
spigot  turned  on?  See  what  you've  done! 
You've  wasted  quarts  and  quarts!  What  will 
father  say,  and  how  will  you  ever  clean  up  such 
a  mess?  You  never  can  get  the  floor  to  look  so 
that  he  won't  notice  it,  and  he  is  sure  to  miss 
the  molasses.  You've  ruined  my  shoes,  and  I 
simply  can't  bear  the  sight  of  you! " 

At  this  Cephas  all  but  blubbered  in  the  agony 
of  his  soul.  It  was  bad  enough  to  be  told  by 
Patty  that  she  was  "considering  several,"  but 
his  first  romance  had  ended  in  such  complete 
disaster  that  he  saw  in  a  vision  his  life  blasted; 
changed  in  one  brief  moment  from  that  of  a 
prosperous  young  painter  to  that  of  a  blighted 
and  despised  bungler,  whose  week's  wages  were 
likely  to  be  expended  in  molasses  to  make  good 
the  Deacon's  loss. 

"Find  those  cleaning-cloths  I  left  in  the  back 
room,"  ordered  Patty  with  a  flashing  eye.  "Get 
some  blocks,  or  bits  of  board,  or  stones,  for  me 

88 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

to  walk  on,  so  that  I  can  get  out  of  your  nasty 
mess.  Fill  Bill  Merrill's  jug,  quick,  and  set  it  out 
on  the  steps  for  him  to  pick  up.  I  don't  know 
what  you  'd  do  without  me  to  plan  for  you !  Lock 
the  front  door  and  hang  father's  sign  that  he's 
gone  to  dinner  on  the  doorknob.  Scoop  up  all 
the  molasses  you  can  with  one  of  those  new 
trowels  on  the  counter.  Scoop,  and  scrape,  and 
scoop,  and  scrape;  then  put  a  cloth  on  your 
oldest  broom,  pour  lots  of  water  on,  pail  after 
pail,  and  swab!  When  you've  swabbed  till  it 
won't  do  any  more  good,  then  scrub!  After  that, 
I  should  n't  wonder  if  you  had  to  fan  the  floor 
with  a  newspaper  or  it'll  never  get  dry  before 
father  comes  home.  I'll  sit  on  the  flour  barrel  a 
little  while  and  advise,  but  I  can't  stay  long 
because  I'm  going  to  a  picnic.  Hurry  up  and 
don't  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  die  any  min 
ute!  It's  no  use  crying  over  spilt  molasses.  You 
don't  suppose  I'm  going  to  tell  any  tales  after 
you've  made  me  an  offer  of  marriage,  do  you? 
I  'm  not  so  mean  as  all  that,  though  I  may  have 
my  faults." 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  before  the  card 
announcing  Deacon  Baxter's  absence  at  dinner 
was  removed  from  the  front  doorknob,  and  when 
the  store  was  finally  reopened  for  business  it  was 
a  most  dejected  clerk  who  dealt  out  groceries  to 

89 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

the  public.  The  worst  feature  of  the  affair  was 
that  every  one  in  the  two  villages  suddenly 
and  contemporaneously  wanted  molasses,  so  that 
Cephas  spent  the  afternoon  reviewing  his  misery 
by  continually  turning  the  tap  and  drawing  off 
the  fatal  liquid.  Then,  too,  every  inquisitive 
boy  in  the  neighborhood  came  to  the  back  of  the 
store  to  view  the  operation,  exclaiming:  "What 
makes  the  floor  so  wet?  Hain't  been  spillin' 
molasses,  have  yer?  Bet  yer  have!  Good  joke 
on  Old  Foxy!" 


ON    TORY    HILL 

IT  had  been  a  heavenly  picnic,  the  little  trio  all 
air  reed  as  to  that;  and  when  Ivory  saw  the  Baxter 
girls  coming  up  the  shady  path  that  led  along 
the  river  from  the  Indian  Cellar  to  the  bridge,  it 
W9M  a  merry  group  and  a  transfigured  Rodman 
thai  cau-hl  his  eye.  The  boy,  trailing  on  behind 
with  the  baskets  and  laden  with  tin  dippers  and 
wildflowers,  seemed  another  creature  from  the 
big-eyed,  quiet  little  lad  he  saw  every  day.  He 
had  chattered  like  a  magpie,  eaten  like  a  bear, 
torn  his  jacket  getting  wild  columbines  for  Patty, 
been  nicely  darned  by  Waitstill,  and  was  in  a 
state  of  hilarity  that  rendered  him  quite  unrecog 
nizable. 

"We've  had  a  lovely  picnic!"  called  Patty; 
"I  wish  you  had  been  with  us!" 

"You  did  n't  a>k  me!"  smiled  Ivory,  picking 
up  \Yaitst ill's  mending-basket  from  the  nook  in 
tin*  trees  where  she  had  hidden  it  for  safe-keep 
ing 

"We've  played  games,  Ivory/'  cried  the  boy. 
"Patty  made  them  up  herself.  First  we  had  the 
'Landing  of  the  Pilgrim-/  and  \\ailstill  made 

91 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

believe  be  the  figurehead  of  the  Mayflower.  She 
stood  on  a  great  boulder  and  sang:  - 

'The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast '  — 

and,  oh!  she  was  splendid!  Then  Patty  was 
Pocahontas  and  I  was  Cap'n  John  Smith,  and 
look,  we  are  all  dressed  up  for  the  Indian 
wedding!" 

Waitstill  had  on  a  crown  of  white  birch  bark 
and  her  braid  of  hair,  twined  with  running  ever 
green,  fell  to  her  waist.  Patty  was  wreathed  with 
columbines  and  decked  with  some  turkey  feathers 
that  she  had  put  in  her  basket  as  too  pretty  to 
throw  away.  Waitstill  looked  rather  conscious 
in  her  unusual  finery,  but  Patty  sported  it  with 
the  reckless  ease  and  innocent  vanity  that  char 
acterized  her. 

"I  shall  have  to  run  into  father's  store  to 
put  myself  tidy,"  Waitstill  said,  "so  good-bye, 
Rodman,  we'll  have  another  picnic  some  day. 
Patty,  you  must  do  the  chores  this  afternoon, 
you  know,  so  that  I  can  go  to  choir  rehearsal." 

Rodman  and  Patty  started  up  the  hill  gayly 
with  their  burdens,  and  Ivory  walked  by  Wait- 
still's  side  as  she  pulled  oft7  her  birch-bark  crown 
and  twisted  her  braid  around  her  head  with  a 
heightened  color  at  being  watched. 

"I'll  say  good-bye  now,  Ivory,  but  I'll  see  you 
92 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

at  the  meeting-house,"  she  said,  as  she  neared 
the  store.  "I'll  go  in  here  and  brush  the  pine 
needles  off,  wash  my  hands,  and  rest  a  little  before 
rehearsal.  That 's  a  puzzling  anthem  we  have  for 
to-morrow." 

"I  have  my  horse  here;  let  me  drive  you  up  to 
the  church." 

"  I  can't,  Ivory,  thank  you.  Father's  orders  are 
against  my  driving  out  with  any  one,  you  know." 

"Very  well,  the  road  is  free,  at  any  rate.  I'll 
hitch  my  horse  down  here  in  the  woods  some 
where  and  when  you  start  to  walk  I  shall  follow 
and  catch  up  with  you.  There's  luckily  only  one 
way  to  reach  the  church  from  here,  and  your 
father  can't  blame  us  if  we  both  take  it!" 

And  so  it  fell  out  that  Ivory  and  Waitstill 
walked  together  in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon  to 
the  meeting-house  on  Tory  Hill.  Waitstill  kept 
the  beaten  path  on  one  side  and  Ivory  that  on 
the  other,  so  that  the  width  of  the  country  road, 
deep  in  dust,  was  between  them,  yet  their  near 
ness  seemed  so  tangible  a  thing  that  each  could 
feel  the  heart  beating  in  the  other's  side. 

Their  talk  was  only  that  of  tried  friends,  a  talk 
interrupted  by  long  beautiful  silences;  silences 
that  come  only  to  a  man  and  woman  whose 
understanding  of  each  other  is  beyond  question 
and  answer.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness, 

93 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

yet  the  very  air,  it  seemed  to  them,  was  shedding 
meanings :  the  flowers  were  exhaling  a  love  secret 
with  their  fragrances,  the  birds  were  singing  it 
boldly  from  the  tree-tops,  yet  no  word  passed 
the  man's  lips  or  the  girl's.  Patty  would  have 
hung  out  all  sorts  of  signals  and  lures  to  draw 
the  truth  from  Ivory  and  break  through  the 
walls  of  his  self-control,  but  Waitstill,  never; 
and  Ivory  Boynton  was  made  of  stuff  so  strong 
that  he  would  not  speak  a  syllable  of  love  to 
a  woman  unless  he  could  say  all.  He  was  only 
five-and-twenty,  but  he  had  been  reared  in 
a  rigorous  school,  and  had  learned  in  its  pov 
erty,  loneliness,  and  anxiety  lessons  of  self-de 
nial  and  self-control  that  bore  daily  fruit  now. 
He  knew  that  Deacon  Baxter  would  never  allow 
any  engagement  to  exist  between  Waitstill  and 
himself;  he  also  knew  that  Waitstill  would  never 
defy  and  disobey  her  father  if  it  meant  leaving 
her  younger  sister  to  fight  alone  a  dreary  battle 
for  which  she  was  not  fitted.  If  there  was  little 
hope  on  her  side  there  seemed  even  less  on  his. 
His  mother's  mental  illness  made  her  peculiarly 
dependent  upon  him,  and  at  the  same  time  held 
him  in  such  strict  bondage  that  it  was  almost  im 
possible  for  him  to  get  on  in  the  world  or  even  to 
give  her  the  comforts  she  needed.  In  villages  like 
Riverboro  in  those  early  days  there  was  no  pul- 

94 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

{inur  away,  even  of  men  or  women  so  demented 
as  to  be  something  of  a  menace  to  the  peace  of  the 
household;  but  Lois  Boynton  was  so  gentle,  so 
fragile,  so  exquisite  a  spirit,  that  she  seemed  in  her 
sad  aloofness  simply  a  thing  to  be  sheltered  and 
shielded  somehow  in  her  difficult  life  journey. 
Ivory  often  thought  how  sorely  she  needed  a 
daughter  in  her  affliction.  If  the  baby  sister  had 
only  lived,  the  home  miirht  have  been  different; 
but  alas !  there  was  only  a  son,  —  a  son  who  tried 
to  be  tender  and  sympathetic,  but  after  all  was 
nothing  but  a  big,  clumsy,  uncomprehending 
man-creature,  who  ought  to  be  felling  trees, 
ploughing,  sowing,  reaping,  or  at  least  studying 
law,  making  his  own  fortune  and  that  of  some 
future  wife.  Old  Mrs.  Mason,  a  garrulous,  good- 
hearted  grandame,  was  their  only  near  neighbor, 
and  her  visits  always  left  his  mother  worse  rather 
than  better.  How  such  a  girl  as  Waitstill  would 
pour  comfort  and  beauty  and  joy  into  a  lonely 
house  like  his,  if  only  he  were  weak  enough  to 
call  upon  her  strength  and  put  it  to  so  cruel  a 
test.  God  help  him,  he  would  never  do  that, 
especially  as  he  could  not  earn  enough  to  keep  a 
larger  family,  bound  down  as  he  was  by  inexor 
able  responsibilities.  WailstilL  thus  far  in  life, 
had  suffered  many  sorrows  and  enjoyed  few 
pleasures;  marriage  ought  to  bring  her  freedom 

95 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  plenty,  not  carking  care  and  poverty.  He 
stole  long  looks  at  the  girl  across  the  separating 
space  that  was  so  helpless  to  separate,  —  feeding 
his  starved  heart  upon  her  womanly  graces.  Her 
quick,  springing  step  was  in  harmony  with  the 
fire  and  courage  of  her  mien.  There  was  a  line  or 
two  in  her  face,  —  small  wonder;  but  an  "uncon 
querable  soul"  shone  in  her  eyes;  shone,  too,  in 
no  uncertain  way,  but  brightly  and  steadily, 
expressing  an  unshaken  joy  in  living.  Valiant, 
splendid,  indomitable  Waitstill!  He  could  never 
tell  her,  alas !  but  how  he  gloried  in  her ! 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  no  woman  could  be 
the  possessor  of  such  a  love  as  Ivory  Boynton's 
and  not  know  of  its  existence.  Waitstill  never 
heard  a  breath  of  it  from  Ivory's  lips;  even  his 
eyes  were  under  control  and  confessed  nothing; 
nor  did  his  hand  ever  clasp  hers,  to  show  by  a 
tell-tale  touch  the  truth  he  dared  not  utter; 
nevertheless  she  felt  that  she  was  beloved.  She 
hid  the  knowledge  deep  in  her  heart  and  covered 
it  softly  from  every  eye  but  her  own;  taking  it 
out  in  the  safe  darkness  sometimes  to  wonder 
over  and  adore  in  secret.  Did  her  love  for  Ivory 
rest  partly  on  a  sense  of  vocation?  —  a  profound, 
inarticulate  divining  of  his  vast  need  of  her?  He 
was  so  strong,  yet  so  weak  because  of  the  yoke  he 
bore,  so  bitterly  alone  in  his  desperate  struggle 

96 


THE  STORY  OF  W.MTSTILL  BAXTER 

with  life,  that  her  heart  melted  like  wax  whenever 
she  thought  of  him.  When  she  contemplated  the 
hidden  mutiny  in  her  own  heart,  she  was  awe 
struck  sometimes  at  the  almost  divine  patience 
of  Ivory's  conduct  as  a  son. 

"How  is  your  mother  this  summer,  Ivory?" 
she  asked  as  they  sat  down  on  the  meeting-house 
steps  waiting  for  Jed  Morrill  to  open  the  door. 

"There  is  little  change  in  her  from  year  to 
year,  Waitstill. -- By  the  way,  why  don't  we 
get  out  of  this  afternoon  sun  and  sit  in  the  old 
graveyard  under  the  trees?  We  are  early  and  the 
choir  won't  get  here  for  half  an  hour. --Dr. 
Perry  says  that  he  does  not  understand  mother's 
case  in  the  least,  and  that  no  one  but  some  great 
Boston  physician  could  give  a  proper  opinion  on 
it;  of  course,  that  is  impossible  at  present." 

They  sat  down  on  the  grass  underneath  one  of 
the  elms  and  Waitstill  took  off  her  hat  and  leaned 
back  against  the  tree-trunk. 

"Tell  me  more,"  she  said;  "it  is  so  long  since 
we  talked  together  quietly  and  we  have  never 
really  spoken  of  your  mother." 

"Of  course,"  Ivory  continued,  "the  people  of 
the  village  all  think  and  speak  of  mother's  illness 
U  K  li-ious  insanity,  but  to  me  it  s«  ins  nothing 
of  the  sort.  I  was  only  a  child  when  father  first 
fell  in  with  Jacob  Cochrane,  hut  I  was  twelve 

97 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

when  father  went  away  from  home  on  his  '  mis 
sion,'  and  if  there  was  any  one  suffering  from 
delusions  in  our  family  it  was  he,  not  mother.  She 
had  altogether  given  up  going  to  the  Cochrane 
meetings,  and  I  well  remember  the  scene  when 
my  father  told  her  of  the  revelation  he  had  re 
ceived  about  going  through  the  state  and  into 
New  Hampshire  in  order  to  convert  others  and 
extend  the  movement.  She  had  no  sympathy 
with  his  self-imposed  mission,  you  may  be  sure, 
though  now  she  goes  back  in  her  memory  to  the 
earlier  days  of  her  married  life,  when  she  tried 
hard,  poor  soul,  to  tread  the  same  path  that 
father  was  treading,  so  as  to  be  by  his  side  at 
every  turn  of  the  road. 

"I  am  sure"  (here  Ivory's  tone  was  somewhat 
dry  and  satirical)  "that  father's  road  had  many 
turns,  \Vaitstill!  He  was  a  schoolmaster  in  Saco, 
you  know,  when  I  was  born,  but  he  soon  turned 
from  teaching  to  preaching,  and  here  my  mother 
followed  with  entire  sympathy,  for  she  was 
intensely,  devoutly  religious.  I  said  there  was 
little  change  in  her,  but  there  is  one  new  symp 
tom.  She  has  ceased  to  refer  to  her  conversion 
to  Cochranism  as  a  blessed  experience.  Her 
memory  of  those  first  days  seems  to  have  faded, 
As  to  her  sister's  death  and  all  the  circumstances 
of  her  bringing  Rodman  home,  her  mind  is  a 

98 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

blank.  Her  expectation  of  father's  return,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  much  more  intense  than  ever." 

"She  must  have  loved  your  father  dearly, 
Ivory,  and  to  lose  him  in  this  terrible  way  is 
much  worse  than  death.  Uncle  Bart  says  he  had 
a  ^reat  gift  of  language!" 

"Yes,  and  it  was  that,  in  my  mind,  that  led 
him  astray.  I  fear  that  the  Spirit  of  God  was 
never  so  strong  in  father  as  the  desire  to  influence 
people  by  his  oratory.  That  was  what  drew  him 
to  preaching  in  the  first  place,  and  when  he  found 
in  Jacob  Cochrane  a  man  who  could  move  an 
audience  to  frenzy,  lift  them  out  of  the  body,  and 
do  with  their  spirits  as  he  willed,  he  acknowledged 
him  as  master.  Whether  his  gospel  was  a  pure 
and  undefiled  religion  I  doubt,  but  he  certainly 
was  a  master  of  mesmeric  control.  My  mother 
was  beguiled,  entranced,  even  bewitched  at  first, 
I  doubt  not,  for  she  translated  all  that  Cochrane 
>aid  into  her  own  speech,  and  regarded  him  as 
the  prophet  of  a  new  era.  But  Cochrane's  l,i>t 
'revelations'  differed  from  the  first,  and  were  of 
the  earth,  earthy.  My  mother's  pure  soul  must 
have  revolted,  but  she  was  not  strong  enoii-h  to 
drau  father  from  his  allegiance.  Mother  was  of 
better  family  than  father,  but  they  were  both 
well  educated  and  had  the  best  schooling  to  be 
had  in  their  day.  So  far  as  I  can  judge,  mother 

99 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

always  had  more  *  balance '  than  father,  and  much 
better  judgment,  —  yet  look  at  her  now!" 

"Then  you  think  it  was  your  father's  disap 
pearance  that  really  caused  her  mind  to  waver?  " 
asked  Waitstill. 

"I  do,  indeed.  I  don't  know  what  happened 
between  them  in  the  way  of  religious  differences, 
nor  how  much  unhappiness  these  may  have 
caused.  I  remember  she  had  an  illness  when  we 
first  came  here  to  live  and  I  was  a  little  chap  of 
three  or  four,  but  that  was  caused  by  the  loss  of  a 
child,  a  girl,  who  lived  only  a  few  weeks.  She 
recovered  perfectly,  and  her  head  was  as  clear  as 
mine  for  a  year  or  two  after  father  went  away.  As 
his  letters  grew  less  frequent,  as  news  of  him 
gradually  ceased  to  come,  she  became  more  and 
more  silent,  and  retired  more  completely  into 
herself.  She  never  went  anywrhere,  nor  enter 
tained  visitors,  because  she  did  not  wish  to  hear 
the  gossip  and  speculation  that  were  going  on  in 
the  village.  Some  of  it  was  very  hard  for  a  wife 
to  bear,  and  she  resented  it  indignantly;  yet  never 
received  a  word  from  father  with  which  to  refute 
it.  At  this  time,  as  nearly  as  I  can  judge,  she  was 
a  recluse,  and  subject  to  periods  of  profound 
melancholy,  but  nothing  worse.  Then  she  took 
that  winter  journey  to  her  sister's  deathbed, 
brought  home  the  boy,  and,  hastened  by  exposure 

100 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSYILL  BAXTER 

and  chill  and  grief,  I  t>uppose,  h<  r  mind  gave 
way, --that's  all!"  And  Ivory  sighed  drearily 
as  he  stretched  himself  on  the  greensward,  and 
looked  off  towards  the  snow-clad  New  Hampshire 
hills.  "I've  meant  to  write  the  story  of  the 
'Cochrane  craze'  sometime,  or  such  part  of  it  as 
has  to  do  with  my  family  history,  and  you  shall 
read  it  if  you  like.  I  should  set  down  my  child 
hood  and  my  boyhood  memories,  together  with 
such  scraps  of  village  hearsay  as  seems  reliable. 
You  were  not  so  much  younger  than  I,  but  I  was 
in  the  thick  of  the  excitement,  and  naturally  I 
heard  more  than  you,  having  so  bitter  a  reason 
for  being  interested.  Jacob  Cochrane  has  alto 
gether  disappeared  from  public  view,  but  there's 
many  a  family  in  Maine  and  New  Hampshire, 
yes,  and  in  the  far  West,  that  will  feel  his  in 
fluence  for  years  to  come." 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  read  your  account. 
Aunt  Abby's  version,  for  instance,  is  so  different 
from  Uncle  Bart's  that  one  can  scarcely  find  the 
truth  between  the  two;  and  father's  bears  no 
relation  to  that  of  any  of  the  others." 

"Some  of  us  see  facts  and  others  see  visions," 
replied  Ivory,  "and  these  differences  of  opinion 
crop  up  in  the  village  every  day  when  anything 
noteworthy  is  discussed.  I  came  upon  a  quota 
tion  in  my  reading  last  evening  that  described  it: 

101 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 


*  One  said  it  thundered  .  .  .  another  that  an  angel 
spake/' 

"Do  you  feel  as  if  your  father  was  dead, 
Ivory?" 

"I  can  only  hope  so!  That  thought  brings 
sadness  with  it,  as  one  remembers  his  disappoint 
ment  and  failure,  but  if  he  is  alive  he  is  a  traitor." 

There  was  a  long  pause  and  they  could  see  in 
the  distance  Humphrey  Barker  with  his  clarionet 
and  Pliny  Waterhouse  with  his  bass  viol  driving 
up  to  the  churchyard  fence  to  hitch  their  horses. 
The  sun  was  dipping  low  and  red  behind  the 
Town-House  Hill  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 

"What  makes  my  father  dislike  the  very  men 
tion  of  yours?"  asked  Waitstill.  "I  know  what 
they  say :  that  it  is  because  the  two  men  had  high 
words  once  in  a  Cochrane  meeting,  when  father 
tried  to  interfere  with  some  of  the  exercises  and 
was  put  out  of  doors.  It  does  n't  seem  as  if  that 
grievance,  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  ago,  would 
influence  his  opinion  of  your  mother,  or  of  you. " 

"It  isn't  likely  that  a  man  of  your  father's 
sort  would  forget  or  forgive  what  he  considered 
an  injury;  and  in  refusing  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  the  son  of  a  disgraced  man  and  a  de 
ranged  woman,  he  is  well  within  his  rights." 

Ivory's  cheeks  burned  red  under  the  tan,  and 
his  hand  trembled  a  little  as  he  plucked  bibs  of 

102 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

clover  from  the  grass  and  pulled  them  to  pic<v- 
absent-mindedly.  "How  are  you  getting  on  at 
home  these  days,  Waitstill?  "  he  asked,  as  if  to 
turn  his  own  mind  and  hers  from  a  too  painful 
subject. 

4  You  have  troubles  enough  of  your  own  with 
out  hearing  mine,  Ivory,  and  anyway  they  are 
not  big  afflictions,  heavy  sorrows,  like  those  you 
have  to  bear.  Mine  are  just  petty,  nagging,  sor 
did,  cheap  little  miseries,  like  gnat-bites;  —  so 
petty  and  so  sordid  that  I  can  hardly  talk  to 
God  about  them,  much  less  to  a  human  friend. 
Patty  is  my  only  outlet  and  I  need  others,  yet  I 
find  it  almost  impossible  to  escape  from  the  nar 
rowness  of  my  life  and  be  of  use  to  any  one  else." 
The  girl's  voice  quivered  and  a  single  tear-drop 
on  her  cheek  showed  that  she  was  speaking  from 
a  full  heart.  "This  afternoon's  talk  has  determined 
me  in  one  thing,"  she  went  on.  "I  am  going  to  see 
your  mother  now  and  then.  I  shall  have  to  do  it 
secretly,  for  your  sake,  for  hers,  and  for  my  own, 
but  if  I  am  found  out,  then  I  will  go  openly.  There 
must  be  times  when  one  can  break  the  lower  law, 
and  yet  keep  the  higher.  Father's  hiw,  in  this  case, 
is  the  lower,  and  I  propose  to  break  it ." 

"I  can't  have  you  getting  into  trouble,  \Vait- 
still,"  Ivory  objected.  ';<  You're  the  one  woman 
I  can  think  of  who  might  help  my  mother;  all  the 

103 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

same,  I  would  not  make  your  life  harder;  not  for 
worlds!" 

"It  will  not  be  harder,  and  even  if  it  was  I 
should  *  count  it  all  joy'  to  help  a  woman  bear 
such  sorrow  as  your  mother  endures  patiently  day 
after  day  " ;  and  Waitstill  rose  to  her  feet  and  tied 
on  her  hat  as  one  who  had  made  up  her  mind. 

It  was  almost  impossible  for  Ivory  to  hold  his 
peace  then,  so  full  of  gratitude  was  his  soul  and 
so  great  his  longing  to  pour  out  the  feeling  that 
flooded  it.  He  pulled  himself  together  and  led 
the  way  out  of  the  churchyard.  To  look  at  Wait- 
still  again  would  be  to  lose  his  head,  but  to  his 
troubled  heart  there  came  a  flood  of  light,  a  glory 
from  that  lamp  that  a  woman  may  hold  up  for 
a  man;  a  glory  that  none  can  take  from  him, 
and  none  can  darken;  a  light  by  which  he  may 
walk  and  live  and  die. 


XI 

A    JUNE    SUNDAY 

IT  was  a  Sunday  in  June,  and  almost  the  whole 
population  of  Riverboro  and  Edgewood  was 
walking  or  driving  in  the  direction  of  the  meeting 
house  on  Tory  Hill. 

Church  toilettes,  you  may  well  believe,  were 
difficult  of  attainment  by  Deacon  Baxter's 
daughters,  as  they  had  been  by  his  respective 
helpmates  in  years  gone  by.  When  Waitstill's 
mother  first  asked  her  husband  to  buy  her  a  new 
dress,  and  that  was  two  years  after  marriage, 
he  simply  said:  "You  look  well  enough;  what 
do  you  want  to  waste  money  on  finery  for,  these 
hard  times?  If  other  folks  are  extravagant,  that 
ain't  any  reason  you  should  be.  You  ain't  obliged 
to  take  your  neighbors  for  an  example:-  hike 
'em  for  a  warnin'!" 

"But,  Foxwcll,  my  Sunday  dress  is  worn 
completely  to  threads,"  urged  the  second  Mrs. 
Baxter. 

"ThatV  what  women  always  say;  they're  all 
alike;  no  more  idea  <>'  savin'  anything  than  a 
skunk -blackbird!  I  can't  spare  any  money  for 
grw-gaws,  and  you  miirht  as  well  understand  it 

in:. 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

first  as  last.  Go  up  attic  and  open  the  hair  trunk 
by  the  winder;  you'll  find  plenty  there  to  last 
you  for  years  to  come." 

The  second  Mrs.  Baxter  visited  the  attic  as 
commanded,  and  in  turning  over  the  clothes  in 
the  old  trunk,  knew  by  instinct  that  they  had 
belonged  to  her  predecessor  in  office.  Some  of  the 
dresses  were  neat,  though  terribly  worn  and 
faded,  but  all  were  fortunately  far  too  short  and 
small  for  a  person  of  her  fine  proportions.  Be 
sides,  her  very  soul  shrank  from  wearing  them, 
and  her  spirit  revolted  both  from  the  insult  to 
herself  and  to  the  poor  dead  woman  she  had 
succeeded,  so  she  came  downstairs  to  darn  and 
mend  and  patch  again  her  shabby  wardrobe. 

Waitstill  had  gone  through  the  same  experience 
as  her  mother  before  her,  but  in  despair,  when  she 
was  seventeen,  she  began  to  cut  over  the  old  gar 
ments  for  herself  and  Patty.  Mercifully  there 
were  very  few  of  them,  and  they  had  long  since 
been  discarded.  At  eighteen  she  had  learned  to 
dye  yarns  with  yellow  oak  or  maple  bark  and  to 
make  purples  from  elder  and  sumac  berries;  she 
could  spin  and  knit  as  well  as  any  old  " Aunt"  of 
the  village,  and  cut  and  shape  a  garment  as 
deftly  as  the  Edgewood  tailoress,  but  the  task 
of  making  bricks  without  straw  was  a  hard  one, 
indeed. 

106 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

She  wore  a  white  cotton  frock  on  this  particu 
lar  Sunday.  It  was  starched  and  ironed  with  a 
beautiful  gloss,  while  a  touch  of  distinction  was 
given  to  her  costume  by  a  little  black  sleeveless 
"roundabout "  made  out  of  the  covering  of  an  old 
silk  umbrella.  Her  flat  hat  had  a  single  wreath 
of  coarse  daisies  around  the  crown,  and  her  mitts 
were  darned  in  many  places,  nevertheless  you 
could  not  entirely  spoil  her;  God  had  used  a  lib 
eral  hand  in  making  her,  and  her  father's  parsi 
mony  was  a  sort  of  boomerang  that  flew  back 
chiefly  upon  himself. 

As  for  Patty,  her  style  of  beauty,  like  Ce 
phas  Cole's  ell,  had  to  be  toned  down  rather 
than  up,  to  be  effective,  but  circumstances 
had  been  cruelly  unrelenting  in  this  process  of 
late.  Deacon  Baxter  had  given  the  girls  three  or 
four  shopworn  pieces  of  faded  yellow  calico  that 
1  i.id  been  repudiated  by  the  village  housewives 
as  not  "fast"  enough  in  color  to  bear  the  test  of 
proper  washing.  This  had  made  frocks,  aprons, 
petticoat-,  and  even  underelot lies,  for  two  full 
years,  and  Patty's  weekly  <>l>juri;al  ions  when  she 
removed  her  everlasting  yellow  dress  from  the 
nail  where  it  hung  were  not  such  as  should  have 
fallen  from  the  lips  of  a  deacon's  daughter.  Wait- 
still  had  taken  a  piece  of  the  same  yellow  material, 
starched  and  ironed  it,  cut  a  curving,  circular 

107 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

brim  from  it,  sewed  in  a  pleated  crown,  and  lo!  a 
hat  for  Patty !  What  inspired  Patty  to  put  on  a 
waist  ribbon  of  deepest  wine  color,  with  a  little 
band  of  the  same  on  the  pale  yellow  hat,  no  one 
could  say. 

"Do  you  think  you  shall  like  that  dull  red 
right  close  to  the  yellow,  Patty?  "  Waitstill  asked 
anxiously. 

"It  looks  all  right  on  the  columbines  in  the 
Indian  Cellar,"  replied  Patty,  turning  and  twist 
ing  the  hat  on  her  head.  "If  we  can't  get  a  peek 
at  the  Boston  fashions,  we  must  just  find  our 
styles  where  we  can!" 

The  various  roads  to  Tory  Hill  were  alive  with 
vehicles  on  this  bright  Sunday  morning.  Uncle 
Bart  and  Abel  Day,  with  their  respective  wives 
on  the  back  seat  of  the  Cole's  double  wagon,  were 
passed  by  Deacon  Baxter  and  his  daughters, 
Waitstill  being  due  at  meeting  earlier  than  others 
by  reason  of  her  singing  in  the  choir.  The  Dea 
con's  one-horse,  two-wheeled  "shay"  could  hold 
three  persons  with  comfort  on  its  broad  seat, 
and  the  twenty -year-old  mare,  although  she  was 
always  as  hollow  as  a  gourd,  could  generally  do 
the  mile,  uphill  all  the  way,  in  half  an  hour,  if 
urged  continually,  and  the  Deacon,  be  it  said,  if 
not  good  at  feeding,  was  unsurpassed  at  urging. 

Aunt  Abby  Cole  could  get  only  a  passing 
108 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

glimpse  of  Patty  in  the  depths  of  the  "shay," 
hut  a  glimpse  was  always  enough  for  her,  as  her 
opinion  of  the  irirl's  charms  was  considerably  af 
fected  by  the  forlorn  condition  of  her  son  Cephas, 
whom  she  suspected  of  being  hopelessly  in  love 
with  the  young  person  aforesaid,  to  whom  she 
commonly  alluded  as  "that  red-headed  bag 
gage." 

"  Patience  Baxter's  got  the  kind  of  looks  that 
might  do  well  enough  at  a  tavern  dance,  or  a 
husking,  but  they're  entirely  unsuited  to  the 
Sabbath  day  or  the  meetin'-house,"  so  Aunt 
Abby  remarked  to  Mrs.  Day  in  the  way  of  back 
seat  confidence.  "It's  unfortunate  that  a  dea 
con's  daughter  should  be  afflicted  with  that  hold 
style  of  beauty!  Her  hair's  all  but  red;  in  fact, 
you  might  as  well  call  it  red,  when  the  sun  shines 
on  it:  but  if  she'd  ever  smack  it  down  with  bear's 
grease  she  might  darken  it  some;  or  anyhow  she'd 
make  it  lay  slicker;  but  it's  the  kind  of  hair  that 
just  matches  that  kind  of  a  girl,  —  sort  of  up 
an'  comin'!  Then  her  skin's  so  white  and  her 
cheeks  so  pink  and  her  eyes  so  snappy  that  she'd 
attract  attention  without  half  try  in':  though  I 
guess  she  ain't  above  makin'  an  effort." 

"She's  innnocent  as  a  kit  ten,  "observed  Mrs. 
Day  impartially. 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  innocent  enough  an'  I  hope 
109 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

she'll  keep  so!  Waitstill's  a  sight  han'somer,  if 
the  truth  was  told ;  but  she 's  the  sort  of  girl  that 's 
made  for  one  man  and  the  rest  of  'em  never  look 
at  her.  The  other  one 's  cut  out  for  the  crowd,  the 
more  the  merrier.  She's  a  kind  of  man-trap,  that 
girl  is! --Do  urge  the  horse  a  little  mite,  Bar 
tholomew  !  It  makes  me  kind  o'  hot  to  be  passed 
by  Deacon  Baxter.  It 's  Missionary  Sunday,  too, 
when  he  gen'ally  has  rheumatism  too  bad  to  come 
out." 

"I  wonder  if  he  ever  puts  anything  into  the 
plate,"  said  Mrs.  Day.  "No  one  ever  saw  him, 
that  I  know  of." 

'The  Deacon  keeps  the  Thou  Shalt  Not  com 
mandments  pretty  well,"  was  Aunt  Abby's  terse 
response.  "I  guess  he  don't  put  nothin'  into  the 
plate,  but  I  s'pose  we'd  ought  to  be  thankful  he 
don't  take  nothin'  out.  The  Baptists  are  gettin' 
ahead  faster  than  they'd  ought  to,  up  to  the 
Mills.  Our  minister  ain't  no  kind  of  a  proselyter. 
Seems  as  if  he  did  n't  care  how  folks  got  to 
heaven  so  long  as  they  got  there!  The  other 
church  is  havin'  a  service  this  afternoon  side  o' 
the  river,  an'  I'd  kind  o'  like  to  go,  except  it 
would  please  'em  too  much  to  have  a  crowd  there 
to  see  the  immersion.  They  tell  me,  but  I  don't 
know  how  true,  that  that  Tillson  widder  woman 
that  come  here  from  somewheres  in  Vermont 

110 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

wanted  to  be  baptized  to-day,  but  the  other  con 
verts  declared  they  would  n't  be,  if  she  was!" 

"Jed  Morrill  said  they'd  have  to  hold  her 
under  water  quite  a  spell  to  do  any  good," 
chuckled  Uncle  Bart  from  the  front  seat. 

"  Well,  I  would  n't  repeat  it,  Bartholomew,  on 
the  Sabbath  day;  not  if  he  did  say  it.  Jed  Mor 
rill  's  responsible  for  more  blasphemious  jokes 
than  any  man  in  Edgewood.  I  don't  approve  of 
inakin'  light  of  anybody's  religious  observances 
if  they  're  ever  so  foolish,"  said  Aunt  Abby  some 
what  enigmatically.  "Our  minister  keeps  re- 
mindin'  us  that  the  Baptists  and  Methodists 
are  our  brethren,  but  I  wish  he'd  be  a  little  more 
anxious  to  have  our  S'ciety  keep  ahead  of  the 
others." 

"Jed's  'bout  right  in  sizin'  up  the  Widder  Till- 
son,"  was  Mr.  Day's  timid  contribution  to  the 
argument.  "  I  ain't  a  readin'  man,  but  from  what 
folks  report  I  should  think  she  was  one  o'  them 
critters  that  set  on  rocks  bewilderin'  an'  bedev- 
ilin'  men-folks  out  o'  their  senses  —  syrcens,  I 
think  they  call  'em;  a  reg'lar  syrecn  is  what  that 
woman  is,  I  guess!" 

*  There,  there,  Abel,  you  would  n't  know  a 
syreen  if  you  found  one  in  your  baked  beans, 
so  don't  take  away  a  woman's  character  on 
hearsa/."  And  Mrs.  Day,  having  shut  up  her 

111 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

husband  as  was  her  bounden  duty  as  a  wife  and 
a  Christian,  tied  her  bonnet  strings  a  little  tighter 
and  looked  distinctly  pleased  with  herself. 

"Abel  ain't  startin'  any  new  gossip,"  was 
Aunt  Abby's  opinion,  as  she  sprung  to  his 
rescue.  "One  or  two  more  holes  in  a  colander 
don't  make  much  dif'rence.  --  Bartholomew, 
we're  certainly  goin'  to  be  late  this  mornin'; 
we're  about  the  last  team  on  the  road";  and 
Aunt  Abby  glanced  nervously  behind.  "Elder 
Boone  ain't  begun  the  openin'  prayer,  though,  or 
we  should  know  it.  You  can  hear  him  pray  a 
mile  away,  when  the  wind 's  right.  I  do  hate  to  be 
late  to  meetin'.  The  Elder  allers  takes  notice;  the 
folks  in  the  wing  pews  allers  gapes  an'  stares, 
and  the  choir  peeks  through  the  curtain,  takin' 
notes  of  everything  you  've  got  on  your  back.  I 
hope  to  the  land  they  '11  chord  and  keep  together 
a  little  mite  better 'n  they've  done  lately,  that's 
all  I  can  say!  If  the  Lord  is  right  in  our  midst  as 
the  Bible  says,  He  can't  think  much  of  our  singers 
this  summer!" 

'  They  're  improvin',  now  that  Pliny  Water- 
house  plays  his  fiddle,"  Mrs.  Day  remarked 
pacifically.  'There  was  times  in  the  anthem 
when  they  kept  together  consid'able  well  last 
Sunday.  They  did  n't  always  chord,  but  there, 
they  chorded  some !  -  -  We  're  most  there  now, 

112 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Abby,  don't  fret!  Cephas  won't  ring  the  last 
bell  till  he  knows  his  own  folks  is  crossin'  the 
Common!" 

Those  were  days  of  conscientious  church-going 
and  every  pew  in  the  house  was  crowded.  The 
pulpit  was  built  on  pillars  that  raised  it  six  feet 
higher  than  the  floor;  the  top  was  cushioned  and 
covered  with  red  velvet  surmounted  by  a  huge 
Kilt-edged  Bible.  There  was  a  window  in  tlie 
tower  through  which  Cephas  Cole  could  look 
into  the  church,  and  while  tolling  the  bell  could 
keep  watch  for  the  minister.  Always  exactly  on 
time,  he  would  come  in,  walk  slowly  up  the  right- 
liand  aisle,  mount  the  pulpit  stairs,  enter  and 
close  the  door  after  him.  Then  Cephas  would 
give  one  tremendous  pull  to  warn  loiterers  on 
the  steps;  a  pull  that  meant,  "Parson's  in  the 
pulpit!"  and  was  acted  upon  accordingly.  Open 
ing  the  big  Bible,  the  minister  raised  his  riirht 
hand  impressively,  and  saying,  "Let  us  pray," 
the  whole  congregation  rose  in  their  pews  with  a 
great  nisi  ling  and  bowed  their  heads  devoutly 
for  the  invocation. 

Next  came  the  hymn,  generally  at  that  day  one 
of  Isaac  Watts's.  The  singers,  fifteen  or  twenty 
in  number,  sat  in  a  raised  gallery  opposite  the 
pulpit,  and  there  was  a  rod  in  front  hung  with 

113 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

red  curtains  to  hide  them  when  sitting  down. 
Any  one  was  free  to  join,  which  perhaps  accounted 
for  Aunt  Abby's  strictures  as  to  time  and  tune. 
Jed  Morrill,  "  blasphemious  "  as  he  was  consid 
ered  by  that  acrimonious  lady,  was  the  leader, 
and  a  good  one,  too.  There  would  be  a  great 
whispering  and  buzzing  when  Deacon  Sumner 
with  his  big  fiddle  and  Pliny  Waterhouse  with  his 
smaller  one  would  try  to  get  in  accord  with 
Humphrey  Baker  and  his  clarionet.  All  went  well 
when  Humphrey  was  there  to  give  the  sure  key 
note,  but  in  his  absence  Jed  Morrill  would  use  his 
tuning-fork.  When  the  key  was  finally  secured 
by  all  concerned,  Jed  would  raise  his  stick,  beat 
one  measure  to  set  the  time,  and  all  joined  in,  or 
fell  in,  according  to  their  several  abilities.  It 
was  not  always  a  perfect  thing  in  the  way  of  a 
start,  but  they  were  well  together  at  the  end  of 
the  first  line,  and  wrhen,  as  now,  the  choir  num 
bered  a  goodly  number  of  voices,  and  there  were 
three  or  four  hundred  in  the  pews,  nothing  more 
inspiring  in  its  peculiar  way  was  ever  heard, 
than  the  congregational  singing  of  such  splendid 
hymns  as  "Old  Hundred,"  "Duke  Street,"  or 
"Coronation." 

Waitstill  led  the  trebles,  and  Ivory  was  at  the 
far  end  of  the  choir  in  the  basses,  but  each  was 
conscious  of  the  other's  presence.  This  morning 

114 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

he  could  hear  her  noble  voice  rising  a  little 
above,  or,  perhaps  from  its  quality,  separating 
itself  somehow,  ever  so  little,  from  the  others. 
How  full  of  strength  and  hope  it  was,  her  voice! 
How  steadfast  to  the  pitch;  how  golden  its  color; 
how  moving  in  its  crescendos!  How  the  words 
flowed  from  her  lips;  not  as  if  they  had  been  writ 
ten  years  ago,  but  as  if  they  were  the  expression 
of  her  own  faith.  There  wore  many  in  the  con 
gregation  who  were  stirred,  they  knew  not  why, 
when  there  chanced  to  be  only  a  few  "  carrying  the 
air'*  and  they  could  really  hear  Waitstill  Baxter 
singing  some  dear  old  hymn,  full  of  sacred  memo 
ries,  like:  - 

"While  Thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power, 

Be  my  vain  wishrs  stilled! 
And  may  this  consecrated  hour 
With  better  hopes  be  filled." 

"There  may  be  them  in  Boston  that  can  sing 
louder,  and  they  may  be  able  to  run  up  a  little 
higher  than  Waits!  ill,  but  the  question  is,  could 
any  of  Yin  make  Aunt  Abby  Cole  shed  iear>?" 
This  was  Jed  MorriU's  tribute  to  his  best  soprano. 

There  were  Sunday  evening  prayer-meetings, 
too,  held  at  "early  candlelight,"  when  Waits! ill 
and  Lucy  Merrill  would  make  a  duel  of  "By  cool 
Siloam's  Shady  Rill,"  or  Hie  favorite  "Naomi;' 

and  the  two  fresh  youn.ir  voices,  rising  and  falling 

\\:> 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

in  the  tender  thirds  of  the  old  tunes,  melted  all 
hearts  to  new  willingness  of  sacrifice. 

"Father,  whate'er  of  earthly  bliss 

Thy  sov 'reign  will  denies, 
Accepted  at  Thy  Throne  of  grace 
Let  this  petition  rise! 

"Give  me  a  calm,  a  thankful  heart, 

From  every  murmur  free! 
The  blessing  of  Thy  grace  impart 
And  let  me  live  to  Thee!" 

How  Ivory  loved  to  hear  Waitstill  sing  these  lines ! 
How  they  eased  his  burden  as  they  were  easing 
hers,  falling  on  his  impatient,  longing  heart  like 
evening  dew  on  thirsty  grass ! 


XII 

THE    GREEN-EYED    MONSTER 

M  WHILE  Thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power,"  was  the 
first  hymn  on  this  particular  Sunday  morning, 
and  it  usually  held  Patty's  rather  vagrant  atten 
tion  to  the  end,  though  it  failed  to  do  so  to-day. 
The  Baxters  occupied  one  of  the  wing  pews,  a 
position  always  to  be  envied,  as  one  could  see  the 
singers  without  turning  around,  and  also  observe 
everybody  in  the  congregation, —  their  entrance, 
garments,  behavior,  and  especially  their  bon 
nets,  —  without  being  in  the  least  indiscreet,  or 
seeming  to  have  a  roving  eye. 

Lawyer  Wilson's  pew  was  the  second  in  front  of 
the  Baxters  in  the  same  wing,  and  Patty,  seated 
decorously  but  unwillingly  beside  her  father,  was 
impatiently  awaiting  the  entrance  of  the  family, 
knowing  that  Mark  would  be  with  them  if  he 
had  returned  from  Boston.  Timothy  Grant,  the 
parish  clerk,  had  the  pew  in  be  I  ween,  and  afforded 
a  most  edifying  spectacle  to  the  community,  as 
there  were  seven  young  Grants  of  a  ehnreh-going 
age,  and  the  ladies  of  the  congregation  were 
alwayseoimtinglhem,  reckoning  how  many  more 
were  in  their  cradles  at  home  and  trying  to  guess 

117 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

from  Mrs.  Grant's  lively  or  chastened  countenance 
whether  any  new  ones  had  been  born  since  the 
Sunday  before. 

Patty  settled  herself  comfortably,  and  put  her 
foot  on  the  wooden  "cricket,"  raising  her  buff 
calico  a  little  on  the  congregation  side,  just 
enough  to  show  an  inch  or  two  of  petticoat.  The 
petticoat  was  as  modestly  long  as  the  frock  itself, 
and  disclosing  a  bit  of  it  was  nothing  more  hei 
nous  than  a  casual  exhibition  of  good  needlework. 
Deacon  Baxter  furnished  only  the  unbleached 
muslin  for  his  daughters'  undergarments;  but 
twelve  little  tucks  laboriously  done  by  hand, 
elaborate  inch- wide  edging,  crocheted  from 
white  spool  cotton,  and  days  of  bleaching  on  the 
grass  in  the  sun,  will  make  a  petticoat  that  can  be 
shown  in  church  with  some  justifiable  pride. 

The  Wilsons  came  up  the  aisle  a  moment  later 
than  was  their  usual  habit,  just  after  the  parson 
had  ascended  the  pulpit.  Mrs.  Wilson  always 
entered  the  pew  first  and  sat  in  the  far  end.  Patty 
had  looked  at  her  admiringly,  and  with  a  certain 
feeling  of  proprietorship,  for  several  Sundays. 
There  was  obviously  no  such  desirable  mother-in- 
law  in  the  meeting-house.  Her  changeable  silk 
dress  was  the  latest  mode;  her  shawl  of  black 
llama  lace  expressed  wealth  in  every  delicate 
mesh,  and  her  bonnet  had  a  distinction  that 

118 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

could  only  have  emanated  from  Portland  or 
Boston.  Ellen  Wilson  usually  came  in  next,  with 
as  much  of  a  smile  to  Patty  in  passing  as  she 
dared  venture  in  the  Deacon's  presence,  and 
after  her  sidled  in  her  younger  sister  Selina, 
commonly  called  "Silly,"  and  with  considerable 
reason. 

Mark  had  come  home!  Patty  dared  not  look 
up,  but  she  felt  his  approach  behind  the  others, 
although  her  eyes  sought  the  floor,  and  her  cheeks 
hung  out  signals  of  abashed  but  certain  welcome. 
She  heard  the  family  settle  in  their  seats  some 
what  hastily,  the  click  of  the  pew  door  and  the 
sound  of  Lawyer  Wilson's  cane  as  he  stood  it  in 
the  corner;  then  the  parson  rose  to  pray  and  Patty 
closed  her  eyes  with  the  rest  of  the  congregation. 

Opening  them  when  Elder  Boone  rose  to 
announce  the  hymn,  they  fell  —  amazed,  resent 
ful,  uncomprehending  —  on  the  spectacle  of 
Mark  Wilson  finding  the  place  in  the  book  for  a 
strange  young  woman  who  sat  beside  him.  Mark 
himself  had  on  a  new  suit  and  wore  a  seal  ring 
that  Patty  had  never  observed  before;  while  the 
dress,  pelisse,  and  hat  of  the  unknown  were  of 
a  nature  that  no  girl  in  Patty's  position,  and 
particularly  of  Patty's  disposition,  could  have 
regarded  without  a  desire  to  tear  them  from  her 
person  and  stamp  them  underfoot;  or  better 

119 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

.still,  flaunt  them  herself  and  show  the  world  how 
they  should  be  worn ! 

Mark  found  the  place  in  the  hymn-book  for 
the  —  creature,  shared  it  with  her,  and  once, 
when  the  Grant  twins  wriggled  and  Patty  secured 
a  better  view,  once,  Mark  shifted  his  hand  on  the 
page  so  that  his  thumb  touched  that  of  his  pretty 
neighbor,  who  did  not  remove  hers  as  if  she  found 
the  proximity  either  unpleasant  or  improper. 
Patty  compared  her  own  miserable  attire  with 
that  of  the  hated  rival  in  front,  and  also  con 
trasted  Lawyer  Wilson's  appearance  with  that  of 
her  father;  the  former,  well  dressed  in  the  style  of 
a  gentleman  of  the  time,  in  broadcloth,  with  fine 
linen,  and  a  tall  silk  hat  carefully  placed  on  the 
floor  of  the  pew;  while  Deacon  Baxter  wore 
homespun  made  of  wool  from  his  own  sheep, 
spun  and  woven,  dyed  and  finished,  at  the 
fulling-mill  in  the  village,  and  carried  a  battered 
felt  hat  that  had  been  a  matter  of  ridicule  these 
dozen  years.  (The  Deacon  would  be  buried  in 
two  coats,  Jed  Morrill  always  said,  for  he  owned 
just  that  number,  and  would  be  too  mean  to 
leave  either  of  'em  behind  him !) 

The  sermon  was  fifty  minutes  long,  time 
enough  for  a  deal  of  thinking.  Many  a  housewife, 
not  wholly  orthodox,  cut  and  made  over  all  her 
children's  clothes,  in  imagination;  planned  the 

120 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

putting  up  of  her  fruit,  the  making  of  her 
preserves  and  pickles,  and  arranged  her  meals  for 
the  next  week,  during  the  progress  of  those  ser 
mons.  Patty  watched  the  parson  turn  leaf  after 
leaf  until  the  final  one  was  reached.  Then  came 
the  last  hymn,  when  the  people  stretched  their 
aching  limbs,  and  rising,  turned  their  backs  on 
the  minister  and  faced  the  choir.  Patty  looked  at 
Waitstill  and  wished  that  she  could  put  her  throb- 
hi n IT  head  on  her  sisterly  shoulder  and  cry,— 
mostly  with  rage.  The  benediction  was  said,  and 
with  the  final  "Amen  "  the  pews  were  opened  and 
the  worshippers  crowded  into  the  narrow  aisles 
and  moved  towards  the  doors. 

Patty's  plans  were  all  made.  She  was  out  of 
her  pew  before  the  Wilsons  could  possibly  leave 
theirs,  and  in  her  progress  down  the  aisle  securely 
annexed  her  great  admirer,  old  Dr.  Perry,  as  well 
as  his  son  Philip.  Passing  the  singing-seats  she 
picked  up  the  humble  (Yphus  and  carried  him 
along  in  her  wake,  chatting  and  talking  with  her 
lit  lie  party  while  her  father  was  at  the  horse- 
>heds,  making  ready  to  go  home  between  ser 
vices  as  was  his  habit,  a  cold  bite  being  always 
set  out  on  the  kitchen  table  according  to  his 
orders.  By  means  of  these  clever  manoeuvres 
Patty  made  herself  the  focus  of  attention  when 
the  Wilson  party  came  out  on  the  steps,  and 

121 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

vouchsafed  Mark  only  a  nonchalant  nod,  airily 
flinging  a  little  greeting  with  the  nod,  —  just  a 
"  How  d'  ye  do,  Mark?  Did  you  have  a  good  time 
in  Boston?" 

Patty  and  Waitstill,  writh  some  of  the  girls 
who  had  come  long  distances,  ate  their  luncheon 
in  a  shady  place  under  the  trees  behind  the  meet 
ing-house,  for  there  was  an  afternoon  service  to 
come,  a  service  with  another  long  sermon.  They 
separated  after  the  modest  meal  to  walk  about 
the  Common  or  stray  along  the  road  to  the  Acad 
emy,  where  there  was  a  fine  view. 

Two  or  three  times  during  the  summer  the 
sisters  always  went  quietly  and  alone  to  the 
Baxter  burying-lot,  where  three  grassgrown 
graves  lay  beside  one  another,  unmarked  save 
by  narrow  wooden  slabs  so  short  that  the  initials 
painted  on  them  were  almost  hidden  by  the  tufts 
of  clover.  The  girls  had  brought  roots  of  pansies 
and  sweet  alyssum,  and  with  a  knife  made  holes 
in  the  earth  and  planted  them  here  and  there  to 
make  the  spot  a  trifle  less  forbidding.  They  did 
not  speak  to  each  other  during  this  sacred  little 
ceremony;  their  hearts  were  too  full  when  they 
remembered  afresh  the  absence  of  headstones, 
the  lack  of  care,  in  the  place  where  the  three 
women  lay  who  had  ministered  to  their  father, 
borne  him  children,  and  patiently  endured  his 

122 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

arbitrary  and  loveless  rule.  Even  Cleve  Flan 
ders'  grave, --the  Edgewood  shoemaker,  who 
lay  next,  —  even  his  resting-place  was  marked, 
and,  with  a  touch  of  some  one's  imagination, 
marked  by  the  old  man's  own  lapstone,  twenty- 
five  pounds  in  weight,  a  monument  of  his  work- 
a-day  life. 

Waitstill  rose  from  her  feet,  brushing  the  earth 
from  her  hands,  and  Patty  did  the  same.  The 
churchyard  wras  quiet,  and  they  were  alone  with 
the  dead,  mourned  and  unmourned,  loved  and 
unloved. 

"I  planted  one  or  two  pansies  on  the  first 
one's  grave,"  said  Waitstill  soberly.  "I  don't 
know  why  we've  never  done  it  before.  There 
are  no  children  to  take  notice  of  and  remember 
her;  it's  the  least  we  can  do,  and,  after  all,  she 
belongs  to  the  family." 

"There  is  no  family,  and  there  never  was!" 
suddenly  cried  Tatty.  "Oh!  Waity,  Wait  y,  we  are 
so  alone,  you  and  I!  We've  only  each  other  in 
all  the  world,  and  I'm  not  the  least  bit  of  help  to 
you,  as  you  are  to  me!  I'm  a  silly,  vain,  con 
ceited,  ill-behaved  thing,  but  I  will  be  better,  I 
will!  You  won't  ever  give  me  up,  will  you,  Waity. 
even  if  I'm  not  like  von?  I  have  n't  been  good 
lately!" 

"Hush,  Patty,  hush!"  And  Waitstill  eame 
L2S 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

nearer  to  her  sister  with  a  motherly  touch  of  her 
hand.  "I'll  not  have  you  say  such  things;  you 
that  are  the  helpfullest  and  the  lovingest  girl 
that  ever  was,  and  the  cleverest,  too,  and  the 
liveliest,  and  the  best  company-keeper!" 

"No  one  thinks  so  but  you!"  Patty  responded 
dolefully,  although  she  wiped  her  eyes  as  if  a  bit 
consoled. 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  Patty  would  never  have 
given  Mark  Wilson  a  second  thought  had  he  not 
taken  her  to  drive  on  that  afternoon  in  early  May. 
The  drive,  too,  would  have  quickly  fled  from  her 
somewhat  fickle  memory  had  it  not  been  for  the 
kiss.  The  kiss  was,  indeed,  a  decisive  factor  in 
the  situation,  and  had  shed  a  rosy,  if  somewhat 
fictitious  light  of  romance  over  the  past  three 
weeks.  Perhaps  even  the  kiss,  had  it  never  been 
repeated,  might  have  lapsed  into  its  true  per 
spective,  in  due  course  of  time,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  stranger  in  the 
Wilson  pew.  The  moment  that  Patty's  gaze  fell 
upon  that  fashionably  dressed,  instantaneously 
disliked  girl,  Marquis  Wilson's  stock  rose  twenty 
points  in  the  market.  She  ceased,  in  a  jiffy,  to 
weigh  and  consider  and  criticize  the  young  man, 
but  regarded  him  with  wholly  new  eyes.  His 
figure  was  better  than  she  had  realized,  his  smile 
more  interesting,  his  manners  more  attractive, 

124 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

his  eyelashes  longer;  in  a  word,  he  had  suddenly 
grown  desirable.  A  month  ago  she  could  have 
observed,  with  idle  and  alien  curiosity,  the  spec 
tacle  of  his  thumb  drawing  nearer  to  another 
(feminine)  thumb,  on  the  page  of  the  Watts  and 
Select  Hymn  book;  now,  at  the  morning  service, 
she  had  wished  nothing  so  much  as  to  put  Mark's 
thumb  back  into  his  pocket  where  it  belonged, 
and  slap  the  girl's  thumb  smartly  and  soundly  as 
it  deserved. 

The  ignorant  cause  of  Patty's  distress  was  a 
certain  Annabel  Franklin,  the  daughter  of  a 
cousin  of  Mrs.  \\  ilson's.  Mark  had  stayed  at  the 
Franklin  house  during  his  three  weeks'  visit  in 
Ho>t  on,  where  he  had  gone  on  business  for  his 
father.  The  young  people  had  naturally  seen 
much  of  each  other  and  Mark's  inflammable 
fancy  had  been  so  kindled  by  Annabel's  doll-like 
charms  that  he  had  persuaded  her  to  accompany 
him  to  his  home  and  -vf  a  taste  of  country  life  in 
Maine.  Such  is  man,  such  is  human  nature,  and 
such  is  life,  that  Mark  had  no  sooner  goi  the 
whilom  object  of  h is  u flections  under  his  own  roof 
than  she  beiran  to  pull. 

Annabel  was  I  went y- three,  and  to  tell  the 
truth  she  had  palled  before,  more  than  onee. 
She  was  so  amiable,  so  well-finished,  —  with  her 
smooth  flaxen  hair,  her  neat  nose,  her  buttonhole 

125 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

of  a  mouth,  and  her  trig  shape,  --  that  she 
appealed  to  the  opposite  sex  quite  generally  and 
irresistibly  as  a  worthy  helpmate.  The  only 
trouble  was  that  she  began  to  bore  her  suitors 
somewhat  too  early  in  the  game,  and  they  never 
got  far  enough  to  propose  marriage.  Flaws  in 
her  apparent  perfection  appeared  from  day  to 
day  and  chilled  the  growth  of  the  various  young 
loves  that  had  budded  so  auspiciously.  She  al 
ways  agreed  with  everybody  and  everything  in 
sight,  even  to  the  point  of  changing  her  mind  on 
the  instant,  if  circumstances  seemed  to  make  it 
advisable.  Her  instinctive  point  of  view,  when 
she  went  so  far  as  to  hold  one,  was  somewhat  cut 
and  dried;  in  a  word,  priggish.  She  kept  a  young 
man  strictly  on  his  good  behavior,  that  much 
could  be  said  in  her  favor;  the  only  criticism  that 
could  be  made  on  this  estimable  trait  was  that 
no  bold  youth  was  ever  tempted  to  overstep  the 
bounds  of  discretion  when  in  her  presence.  No 
unruly  words  of  love  ever  rose  to  his  lips;  his 
hand  never  stole  out  involuntarily  and  impru 
dently  to  meet  her  small  chilly  one;  the  sight  of 
her  waist  never  even  suggested  an  encircling  arm ; 
and  as  a  fellow  never  desired  to  kiss  her,  she  wras 
never  obliged  to  warn  or  rebuke  or  strike  him  off 
her  visiting  list.  Her  father  had  an  ample  fortune 
and  some  one  would  inevitably  turn  up  who 

126 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

would  regard  Annabel  as  an  altogether  worthy 
and  desirable  spouse.  That  was  what  she  had 
M  emed  to  Mark  Wilson  for  a  full  week  before  he 
left  the  Franklin  house  in  Boston,  but  there  were 
moments  now  when  lie  regretted,  fugitively,  that 
lie  had  ever  removed  her  from  her  proper  sphere. 
She  did  not  seem  to  fit  in  to  the  conditions  of  life 
in  Edgewood,  and  it  may  even  be  that  her  most 
glaring  fault  had  been  to  describe  Pally  Baxter's 
hair  at  this  very  Sunday  dinner  as  " carroty, "  her 
dress  altogether  "dreadful,"  and  her  style  of 
beauty  "unladylike."  Ellen  \Yilson's  feelings 
were  somewhat  injured  by  these  criticisms  of  her 
intimate  friend,  and  in  discussing  the  matter 
privately  with  her  brother  he  was  inclined  to 
agree  with  her. 

And  thus,  so  little  do  we  know  of  the  prank 
ish  ness  of  the  blind  god,  thus  was  Annabel  Frank 
lin  working  for  her  rival's  best  interests;  and 
instead  of  reviling  her  in  secret,  and  treating  her 
\\ith  dixlain  in  public,  Patty  should  have  wel 
comed  her  cordially  to  all  the  delights  of  River- 
boro  society. 


XIII 

HAYING -TIME 

EVERYBODY  in  Riverboro,  Edgewood,  Milliken's 
Mills,  Spruce  Swamp,  Duck  Pond,  and  Modera 
tion  was  "haying."  There  was  a  perfect  frenzy 
of  haying,  for  it  was  the  Monday  after  the 
"Fourth,"  the  precise  date  in  July  when  the 
Maine  farmer  said  good-bye  to  repose,  and 
"hayed"  desperately  and  unceasingly,  until 
every  spear  of  green  in  his  section  was  mowed 
down  and  safely  under  cover.  If  a  man  had  grass 
of  his  own,  he  cut  it,  and  if  he  had  none,  he  as 
sisted  in  cutting  that  of  some  other  man,  for  "to 
hay,"  although  an  unconventional  verb,  was,  and 
still  is,  a  very  active  one,  and  in  common  circu 
lation,  although  not  used  by  the  grammarians. 

Whatever  your  trade,  and  whatever  your  pro 
fession,  it  counted  as  naught  in  good  weather. 
The  fish-man  stopped  selling  fish,  the  meat-man 
ceased  to  bring  meat;  the  cobbler,  as  well  as  the 
judge,  forsook  the  bench;  and  even  the  doctor 
made  fewer  visits  than  usual.  The  wage  for  work 
in  the  hay-fields  was  a  high  one,  and  every  man, 
boy,  and  horse  in  a  village  was  pressed  into 
service. 

128 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

\Vhcn  Ivory  Boynton  had  finished  with  his 
own  small  crop,  he  commonly  went  at  once  to 
Lawyer  \Yilson,  who  had  the  largest  acreage  of 
hay-land  in  the  township.  Ivory  was  always  in 
great  demand,  for  he  was  a  mighty  worker  in  the 
field,  and  a  very  giant  at  "pitching,"  being  able 
to  pick  up  a  fair-sized  hay-cock  at  one  stroke  of 
the  fork  and  fling  it  on  to  the  cart  as  if  it  were  a 
feather.  Lawyer  AVilson  always  took  a  hand 
himself  if  signs  of  rain  appeared,  and  Mark  oc 
casionally  visited  the  scene  of  action  when  a 
crowd  in  the  field  made  a  general  jollification, 
or  when  there  was  an  impending  thunderstorm. 
In  such  cases  even  women  and  girls  joined  the 
workers  and  all  hands  bent  together  to  the  task 
of  getting  a  load  into  the  barn  and  covering  the 
rest. 

Deacon  Baxter  was  wont  to  call  Mark  AYilson 
a  "worthless,  whey-faced,  lily-handed  whelp/' 
but  the  description,  though  picturesque,  was 
decidedly  exaggerated.  Mark  disliked  manual 
labor,  but  having  imbibed  enough  knowledge  of 
law  in  his  father's  office  to  be  an  excellent  clerk, 
he  much  preferred  travelling  about,  settling  the 
details  of  small  cases,  collecting  rents  and  bad 
bills,  to  any  form  of  work  on  a  farm.  This  sort  of 
life,  on  stage-coaches  and  railway  trains,  or  on 
long  driving  trips  with  his  own  fast  "trotter," 

129 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

suited  his  adventurous  disposition  and  gave  him 
a  sense  of  importance  that  was  very  necessary  to 
his  peace  of  mind.  He  was  not  especially  inti 
mate  with  Ivory  Boynton,  who  studied  law  with 
his  father  during  all  vacations  and  in  every  avail 
able  hour  of  leisure  during  term  time,  as  did 
many  another  young  New  England  schoolmaster. 
Mark's  father's  praise  of  Ivory's  legal  ability  was 
a  little  too  warm  to  please  his  son,  as  was  the 
commendation  of  one  of  the  County  Court  judges 
on  Ivory's  preparation  of  a  brief  in  a  certain  case 
in  the  Wilson  office.  Ivory  had  drawn  it  up  at 
Mr.  Wilson's  request,  merely  to  show  how  far  he 
understood  the  books  and  cases  he  was  studying, 
and  he  had  no  idea  that  it  differed  in  any  way 
from  the  work  of  any  other  student;  all  the  same, 
Mark's  own  efforts  in  a  like  direction  had  never 
received  any  special  mention.  When  he  was  in 
the  hay -field  he  also  kept  as  far  as  possible  from 
Ivory,  because  there,  too,  he  felt  a  superiority 
that  made  him,  for  the  moment,  a  trifle  discon 
tented.  It  was  no  particular  pleasure  for  him  to 
see  Ivory  plunge  his  fork  deep  into  the  heart  of  a 
hay-cock,  take  a  firm  grasp  of  the  handle,  thrust 
forward  his  foot  to  steady  himself,  and  then  raise 
the  great  fragrant  heap  slowly,  and  swing  it  up 
to  the  waiting  hay -cart  amid  the  applause  of  the 
crowd.  Rodman  would  l>e  there,  too,  helping  the 

130 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

man  on  top  of  the  load  and  getting  nearly  buried 
each  time,  as  the  mass  descended  upon  him,  but 
doing  his  slender  best  to  distribute  and  tread  it 
down  properly,  while  his  young  heart  glowed  with 
pride  at  Cousin  Ivory's  prowess. 

Independence  Day  had  passed,  with  its  usual 
gay e ties  for  the  young  people,  in  none  of  which 
the  Baxter  family  had  joined,  and  now,  at  eleven 
o'clock  on  this  burning  July  morning,  Waitstill 
was  driving  the  old  mare  past  the  Wilson  farm 
on  her  way  to  the  river  field.  Her  father  was 
working  there,  together  with  the  two  hired  men 
whom  he  took  on  for  a  fortnight  during  the  height 
of  the  season.  If  mowing,  raking,  pitching,  and 
railing  of  the  precious  crop  could  only  have 
been  done  at  odd  times  during  the  year,  or  at 
night,  he  would  not  have  embittered  the  month  of 
July  by  paying  out  money  for  labor;  but  Nature 
was  inexorable  in  the  ripening  of  hay  and  Old 
Foxy  was  obliged  to  succumb  to  the  inevitable. 
Waitstill  had  a  basket  packed  with  luncheon  for 
three  and  a  great  demijohn  of  cool  ginger  tea 
under  the  wagon  seat.  Other  farmers  sometimes 
MTved  hard  cider,  or  rum,  but  her  father's  prin 
ciples  were  dead  against  this  riotous  extravn- 
ice.  Temperance,  in  any  and  all  directions, 
uas  cheap,  and  the  Deacon  was  a  very  tempi  rate 
man,  save  in  language. 

131 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

The  fields  on  both  sides  of  the  road  were  full  of 
haymakers  and  everywhere  there  was  bustle  and 
stir.  There  would  be  three  or  four  men,  one  lead 
ing,  the  others  following,  slowly  swinging  their  way 
through  a  noble  piece  of  grass,  and  the  smell  of 
the  mown  fields  in  the  sunshine  was  sweeter  than 
honey  in  the  comb.  There  were  patches  of  black- 
eyed  Susans  in  the  meadows  here  and  there, 
while  pink  and  white  hardhack  grew  by  the  road, 
with  day  lilies  and  blossoming  milkweed.  The 
bobolinks  were  fluting  from  every  tree ;  there  were 
thrushes  in  the  alder  bushes  and  orioles  in  the 
tops  of  the  elms,  and  Waitstill's  heart  overflowed 
with  joy  at  being  in  such  a  world  of  midsummer 
beauty,  though  life,  during  the  great  heat  and 
incessant  work  of  haying-time,  was  a  little  more 
rigorous  than  usual.  The  extra  food  needed  for 
the  hired  men  always  kept  her  father  in  a  state  of 
mind  closely  resembling  insanity.  Coming  down 
stairs  to  cook  breakfast  she  would  find  the  coffee 
or  tea  measured  out  for  the  pot.  The  increased 
consumption  of  milk  angered  him  beyond  words, 
because  it  lessened  the  supply  of  butter  for  sale. 
Everything  that  could  be  made  with  buttermilk 
was  ordered  so  to  be  done,  and  nothing  but  water 
could  be  used  in  mixing  the  raised  bread.  The 
corncake  must  never  have  an  egg;  the  piecrust 
must  be  shortened  only  with  lard,  or  with  a 

132 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

mixture  of  beef-fat  and  dripping;  and  so  on,  and 
so  on,  eternally. 

When  the  girls  were  respectively  seventeen  and 
thirteen,  Waitstill  had  begged  a  small  plot  of 
ground  for  them  to  use  as  they  liked,  and  begin 
ning  at  that  time  they  had  gradually  made  a 
little  garden,  with  a  couple  of  fruit  trees  and  a 
thicket  of  red,  white,  and  black  currants,  rasp 
berry  and  blackberry  bushes.  For  several  sum 
mers  now  they  had  sold  enough  of  their  own  fruit 
to  buy  a  pair  of  shoes  or  gloves,  a  scarf  or  a  hat, 
but  even  this  tiny  income  was  beginning  to  be 
menaced.  The  Deacon  positively  suffered  as  he 
looked  at  that  odd  corner  of  earth,  not  any  bigger 
t  han  his  barn  floor,  and  saw  what  his  girls  had  done 
with  no  tools  but  a  spade  and  a  hoe  and  no  help 
but  their  own  hands.  He  had  no  leisure  (so  he 
growled)  to  cultivate  and  fertilize  ground  for 
small  fruits,  and  no  money  to  pay  a  man  to  do  it, 
yet  here  was  food  grown  under  his  very  eye,  and 
it  did  not  belong  tohim!  The  girls  worked  in  their 
garden  chiefly  at  sunrise  in  spring  and  early  sum 
mer,  or  after  supper  in  the  evening;  all  the  same 
\Yait  Mill  had  been  told  by  her  father  the  day 
before  that  she  was  not  only  using  ground,  but 
time,  that  belonged  to  him,  and  that  he  should 
expect  her  to  provide  "pie-filling"  out  of  her 
garden  patch  during  haying,  to  help  -atiM'y  the 

193 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

ravenous  appetites  of  that  couple  of  "great, 
gorming,  greedy  lubbers"  that  he  was  hiring  this 
year.  He  had  stopped  the  peeling  of  potatoes 
before  boiling  because  he  disapproved  of  the 
thickness  of  the  parings  he  found  in  the  pig's 
pail,  and  he  stood  over  Patty  at  her  work  in  the 
kitchen  until  Waitstill  was  in  daily  fear  of  a 
tempest  of  some  sort. 

Coming  in  from  the  shed  one  morning  she 
met  her  father  just  issuing  from  the  kitchen  where 
Patty  was  standing  like  a  young  Fury  in  front  of 
the  sink.  "Father's  been  spying  at  the  eggshells 
I  settled  the  coffee  with,  and  said  I  'd  no  business 
to  leave  so  much  good  in  the  shell  when  I  broke 
an  egg.  I  will  not  bear  it;  he  makes  me  feel  fairly 
murderous !  You  'd  better  not  leave  me  alone  with 
him  when  I  'm  like  this.  Oh !  I  know  that  I  'm 
wicked,  but  is  n't  he  wicked  too,  and  who  was 
wicked  first?" 

Patty's  heart  had  been  set  on  earning  and 
saving  enough  pennies  for  a  white  muslin  dress 
and  every  day  rendered  the  prospect  more  un 
certain;  this  was  a  sufficient  grievance  in  itself  to 
keep  her  temper  at  the  boiling  point  had  there 
not  been  various  other  contributory  causes.  Wait- 
still's  patience  was  flagging  a  trifle,  too,  under  the 
stress  of  the  hot  days  and  the  still  hotter,  breath 
less  nights.  The  suspicion  crossed  her  mind  now 

134 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  then  that  her  lather's  nii>erliness  and  fits  of 
(en i per  niiirht  l>e  caused  by  a  mental  malady  over 
which  lie  now  had  little  or  no  control,  havi:i- 
never  mastered  himself  in  all  his  life.  Her  po\. «  r 
of  endurance  would  be  greater,  she  thought,  if 
only  she  could  be  certain  that  this  theory  was 
true,  though  her  shivery  would  be  just  as  galling. 

It  would  be  so  easy  for  her  to  go  away  and  earn 
a  living;  she  \\lio  had  never  had  a  day  of  illness 
in  her  life;  she  who  could  sew,  knit,  spin,  weave, 
and  cook.  She  could  make  enough  money  in 
Hiddeford  or  Portsmouth  to  support  herself,  and 
Patty,  too,  until  the  proper  work  was  found  for 
both.  But  there  would  be  a  truly  terrible  conflict 
of  wills,  and  such  fierce  arraignment  of  her  uniilial 
conduct,  such  bitter  and  caustic  argument  from 
her  father,  such  disapproval  from  the  parson  and 
the  neighbors,  that  her  very  soul  shrank  from 
the  prospect.  If  she  could  go  alone,  and  have  no 
responsibility  over  Patty's  future,  that  would  be 
a  little  more  possible,  but  she  must  think  wisely 
for  two. 

And  how  could  she  leave  Ivory  when  there 
mi-hl  perhaps  come  a  cri-U  in  his  life  where 
she  could  be  useful  to  him?  How  con  Id  she  cut 
herself  off  from  those  Sunday>  in  the  choir,  those 
dear  fugitive  ^liinpses  of  him  in  the  road  or  at 

prayer-meeting?  They  were  only  sips  of  happi- 

185 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

ness,  where  her  thirsty  heart  yearned  for  long, 
deep  draughts,  but  they  were  immeasurably 
better  than  nothing.  Freedom  from  her  father's 
heavy  yoke,  freedom  to  work,  and  read,  and  sing, 
and  study,  and  grow,  —  oh !  how  she  longed  for 
this,  but  at  what  a  cost  would  she  gain  it  if  she 
had  to  harbor  the  guilty  conscience  of  an  unduti- 
ful  and  rebellious  daughter,  and  at  the  same  time 
cut  herself  off  from  the  sight  of  the  one  being  she 
loved  best  in  all  the  world. 

She  felt  drawn  towards  Ivory's  mother  to-day. 
Three  weeks  had  passed  since  her  talk  with 
Ivory  in  the  churchyard,  but  there  had  been  no 
possibility  of  an  hour's  escape  from  home.  She 
was  at  liberty  this  afternoon  —  relatively  at 
liberty;  for  although  her  work,  as  usual,  was  laid 
out  for  her,  it  could  be  made  up  somehow  or  other 
before  nightfall.  She  could  drive  over  to  the 
Boynton's  place,  hitch  her  horse  in  the  woods 
near  the  house,  make  her  visit,  yet  be  in  plenty 
of  time  to  go  up  to  the  river  field  and  bring  IHT 
father  home  to  supper.  Patty  was  over  at  Mrs. 
Abel  Day's,  learning  a  new  crochet  stitch  and 
helping  her  to  start  a  log-cabin  quilt.  Ivory  and 
Rodman,  she  knew,  were  both  away  in  the  Wilson 
hay-field;  no  time  would  ever  be  more  favorable; 
so  instead  of  driving  up  Town-House  Hill  when  she 
returned  to  the  village  she  kept  on  over  the  bridge. 


XIV 

UNCLE   BART    DISCOURSES 

UNCLE  BART  and  Cephas  were  taking  their  noon 
ing  hour  under  the  Nodhead  apple  tree  as  Wait- 
still  passed  the  joiner's  shop  and  went  over  the 

bridge. 

"Uncle  Bart  might  somehow  guess  where  I  am 
going,"  she  thought,  "but  even  if  he  did  he  would 
never  tell  any  one." 

"  \Yhere 's  Waitstill  bound  this  afternoon,  I 
wonder?"  drawled  Cephas,  rising  to  his  feet  and 
looking  after  the  departing  team.  "That  reminds 
me,  I'd  better  run  up  to  Baxter's  and  see  if  any- 
Ihing's  wanted  before  I  open  the  store." 

"If  it  makes  any  dif'rence,"  said  his  father 
dryly,  as  he  filled  his  pipe,  "Patty's  over  to 
Mis'  Day's  spendin'  the  afternoon.  Don't  s'pose 
you  want  to  call  on  the  pig,  do  you?  He's  the 
only  one  to  home." 

Cephas  made  no  remark,  but  gave  his  trousers 
a  hitch,  picked  up  a  chip,  opened  his  jack-knife, 
and  silting  down  <>n  the  greensward  began  idly 
whittling  the  bit  of  wood  into  shape. 

"  I  kind  o'  wish  you'd  let  me  make  the  new  ell 

137 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

two-story,  father;  't  would  n't  be  much  work, 
take  it  in  slack  time  after  hayin'." 

"Land  o'  Liberty!  What  do  you  want  to  do 
that  for,  Cephas?  You  'bout  pestered  the  life 
out  o'  me  gittin'  me  to  build  the  ell  in  the  first 
place,  when  we  did  n't  need  it  no  more'n  a  toad 
does  a  pocketbook.  Then  nothin'  would  do  but 
you  must  paint  it,  though  I  shan't  be  able  to  have 
the  main  house  painted  for  another  year,  so  the 
old  wine  an'  the  new  bottle  side  by  side  looks  like 
the  Old  Driver,  an'  makes  us  a  laughin'-stock  to 
the  village ;  —  and  now  you  want  to  change  the 
thing  into  a  two-story!  Never  heerd  such  a 
crazy  idee  in  my  life." 

"I  want  to  settle  down,"  insisted  Cephas  dog 
gedly. 

"  Well,  settle;  I  'm  willin' !  I  told  you  that,  afore 
you  painted  the  ell.  Ain't  two  rooms,  fourteen 
by  fourteen,  enough  for  you  to  settle  down  in? 
If  they  ain't,  I  guess  your  mother 'd  give  you  one 
o'  the  chambers  in  the  main  part." 

"  She  would  if  I  married  Phoebe  Day,  but  I  don't 
want  to  marry  Phoebe,  "argued  Cephas.  "And  mo 
ther  's  gone  and  made  a  summer  kitchen  for  her 
self  out  in  the  ell,  a'ready.  I  bet  yer  she'll  never 
move  out  if  I  should  want  to  move  in  on  a  sudden." 

"I  told  you  you  was  takin'  that  risk  when  you 
cut  a  door  through  from  the  main  part,"  said  his 

138 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

father  genially.  "If  you  had  n't  done  that,  your 
mother  would  'a'  had  to  gone  round  outside 
to  git  int'  the  ell,  and  mebbe  she'd  'a'  stayed 
to  home  when  it  stormed,  anyhow.  Now  your 
wife  '11  have  her  troopin'  in  an'  out,  in  an'  out, 
the  whole  'durin'  time." 

"I  only  cut  the  door  through  to  please  mot  her, 
so't  she'd  favor  my  gittin'  married,  but  I  guess  't 
won't  do  no  good.  You  see,  father,  what  I  was 
tliinkin'  of  is,  a  girl  would  mebbe  jump  at  a  two- 
story,  four-roomed  ell  when  she  would  n't  look  at 
a  smaller  place." 

"Pends  upon  whether  the  girl's  the  jumpin' 
kind  or  not!  Had  n't  you  better  git  everything 
fixed  up  with  the  one  you've  picked  out,  afore 
you  take  your  good  savin's  and  go  to  buildin'  a 
bigger  place  for  her?" 

44 I've  asked  her  once  a'ready,"  Cephas  al 
lowed,  witli  a  burning  face.  "I  don't  s'pose  you 
know  the  one  I  mean:'" 

"No  kind  of  an  idee,"  responded  his  father, 
with  a  quizzical  wink  that  was  lost  on  the  young 
man,  a>  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  whittling. 
"Does  she  belong  to  the  village?" 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  let  folks  know  who  I  've  picked 
out  till  I  git  a  little  mite  forran!<T."  responded 
Cephas  craftily.  "Say,  father,  it  pi  all  right  to  ask 
a  girl  twice,  ain't  it?" 

139 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Certain  it  is,  my  son.  I  never  heerd  there 
was  any  special  limit  to  the  number  o'  times  you 
could  ask  'em,  and  their  power  o'  sayin'  'No'  is 
like  the  mercy  of  the  Lord;  it  endureth  forever. 
-  You  would  n't  consider  a  widder,  Cephas?  A 
widder'd  be  a  good  comp'ny-keeper  for  your 
mother." 

"I  hain't  put  my  good  savin's  into  an  ell  jest  to 
marry  a  comp'ny-keeper  for  mother,"  responded 
Cephas  huffily.  "I  want  to  be  number  one  with 
my  girl  and  start  right  in  on  trainin'  her  up  to 
suit  me." 

"Well,  if  trainin'  's  your  object  you'd  better 
take  my  advice  an'  keep  it  dark  before  marriage, 
Cephas.  It's  astonishin'  how  the  female  sect 
despises  bein'  trained;  it  don't  hardly  seem  to  be 
in  their  nature  to  make  any  changes  in  'emselves 
after  they  once  gits  started." 

"How  are  you  goin'  to  live  with  'em,  then?" 
Cephas  inquired,  looking  up  with  interest  coupled 
with  some  incredulity. 

"Let  them  do  the  trainin',"  responded  his 
father,  peacefully  puffing  out  the  words  with  his 
pipe  between  his  lips.  "Some  of  'em's  mild  and 
gentle  in  discipline,  like  Parson  Boone's  wife  or 
Mis'  Timothy  Grant,  and  others  is  strict  and 
firm  like  your  mother  and  Mis'  Abel  Day.  If 
you  happen  to  git  the  first  kind,  why,  do  as  they 

140 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

tell  you,  ami  thank  the  Lord  't  ain't  any  worse. 
If  you  git  the  second  kind,  jest  let  'em  put  the 
blinders  on  you  and  trot  as  straight  as  you 
know  how,  wilhout  shyin',  nor  kickin'  over  the 
traces,  nor  boltin',  'cause  they've  got  control 
o'  the  bit  and  't  ain't  no  use  fightin'  ag'in' 
their  superior  strength.  —  So  fur  as  you  can 
judge,  in  the  early  stages  o'  the  game,  my  son, 
-  which  ain't  very  fur, —  which  kind  have  you 
picked  out?" 

Cephas  whittled  on  for  some  moments  with 
out  a  word,  but  finally,  with  a  sigh  drawn  from 
the  very  toes  of  his  boots,  he  responded  gloom- 
ily,- 

"She's  awful  spunky,  the  girl  is,  anybody  can 
see  that;  but  she's  a  young  thing,  and  I  thought 
bein'  married  would  kind  o'  tame  her  down!" 

"You  can  see  how  much  marriage  has  tamed 
your  mother  down,"  observed  Uncle  Bart  dispas 
sionately;  "howsomever,  though  your  mother 
can't  be  called  tame,  she's  got  her  good  p'ints,  for 
she 's  always  to  be  counted  on.  The  great  thing  in 
life,  as  I  take  it,  Cephas,  is  to  know  exactly  what 
to  expect.  Your  mother's  geifally  credited  with 
anonsartin  temper,  but  folks  does  her  great  in- 
just  ice  in  so  thinkiif ,  for  in  a  long  experience  I  Ye 
seldom  come  across  a  temper  less  onsartin  than 
your  mother's.  You  know  exactly  where  to  find 

141 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

her  every  mornin'  at  sun-up  and  every  night  at 
sundown.  There  ain't  nothin'  you  can  do  to  put 
her  out  o'  temper,  'cause  she's  all  out  aforehand. 
You  can  jest  go  about  your  reg'lar  business  'thout 
any  fear  of  disturbin'  her  any  further  than  she's 
disturbed  a'ready,  which  is  consid'rable.  I  don't 
mind  it  a  mite  nowadays,  though,  after  forty 
years  of  it.  It  would  kind  o'  gall  me  to  keep  a 
stiddy  watch  of  a  female's  disposition  day  by  day, 
wonderin'  when  she  was  goin'  to  have  a  tantrum. 
A  tantrum  once  a  year 's  an  awful  upsettin'  kind 
of  a  thing  in  a  family,  my  son,  but  a  tantrum 
every  twenty-four  hours  is  jest  part  o'  the  day's 
work."  There  was  a  moment's  silence  during 
which  Uncle  Bart  puffed  his  pipe  and  Cephas 
whittled,  after  which  the  old  man  continued: 
"Then,  if  you  happen  to  marry  a  temper  like 
your  mother's,  Cephas,  look  what  a  pow'ful 
worker  you  gen'ally  get!  Look  at  the  way  they 
sweep  an'  dust  an'  scrub  an'  clean!  Watch  'em 
when  they  go  at  the  dish-washin',  an'  how  they 
whack  the  rollin'-pin,  an'  maul  the  eggs,  an' 
heave  the  wood  int'  the  stove,  an'  slat  the  flies 
out  o'  the  house!  The  mild  and  gen  tie  ones,  likely 
enough,  will  be  settin'  in  the  kitchen  rocker  read- 
in'  the  almanac  when  there  ain't  no  wood  in  the 
kitchen  box,  no  doughnuts  in  the  crock,  no  pies 
on  the  swing  shelf  in  the  cellar,  an'  the  young 

142 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

ones  goin'  round  without  a  second  shift  to  their 
Lacks!" 

Cephas's  mind  was  far  away  during  this  phil 
osophical  dissertation  on  the  ways  of  women.  He 
could  see  only  a  sunny  head  fairly  rioting  with 
curls;  a  pair  of  eyes  that  held  his  like  magnets, 
although  they  never  gave  him  a  glance  of  love;  a 
smile  that  lighted  the  world  far  better  than  the 
sun;  a  dimple  into  which  his  heart  fell  headlong 
whenever  he  looked  at  it ! 

'You're  right,  father;  'tain't  no  use  kick  in' 
ag'in'  'em,"  he  said  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  prepara 
tory  to  opening  the  Baxter  store.  "When  I  said 
that  'bout  trainiif  up  a  girl  to  suit  me,  I  kind  o' 
forgot  the  one  I've  picked  out.  I'm  considerin' 
>everal,  but  the  one  I  favor  most-  well,  I  be 
lieve  she'd  fire  up  at  the  first  sight  o'  trainin', 
and  that's  the  gospel  truth." 

"Considerin'  several,  be  you,  Cephas?" 
laughed  Uncle  Bart.  "\Vell,  all  I  hope  is,  that 
the  one  you  favor  most  --  the  girl  you've  asked 
once  a'ready  --  is  considerin'  you!" 

Cephas  went  to  the  pump,  and  wetting  a  lar-e 
handkerchief  put  it  in  the  crown  of  his  >(  raw  hat 
and  sauntered  out  into  the  burning  heat  of  the 
open  road  between  hi^  t'ather'>  shop  and  Deacon 
Baxter's  store. 

"I  shan't  a>k  her  the  next  time  till  this  hot 
149 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

spell's  over,"  he  thought,  "and  I  won't  do  it  in 
that  dodgasted  old  store  ag'in,  neither;  I  ain't  so 
tongue-tied  outdoors  an'  I  kind  o'  think  I'd  l>e 
more  in  the  sperit  of  it  after  sundown,  some  night 
after  supper!" 


XV 


IVORY'S  MOTHER 


WAITSTILL  found  a  cool  and  shady  place  in  which 
to  hitch  the  old  mare,  loosening  her  check-rein 
and  putting  a  sprig  of  alder  in  her  headstall  to 
assist  her  in  brush  ing  off  the  flies. 

One  could  reach  the  Boynton  house  only  by 
going  up  a  long  grass-grown  lane  that  led  from 
the  high-road.  It  was  a  lonely  place,  and  Aaron 
Boynton  had  bought  it  when  he  moved  from 
Saco,  simply  because  he  secured  it  at  a  remarkable 
bargain,  the  owner  having  lost  his  wife  and  gone 
to  live  in  Massachusetts.  Ivory  would  have  sold 
it  long  ago  had  circumstances  been  different,  for 
it  was  at  too  great  a  distance  from  the  schoolhouse 
and  from  Lawyer  Wilson's  office  to  be  at  all  con 
venient,  but  he  dreaded  to  remove  his  mother 
from  the  environment  to  which  she  was  accus 
tomed,  and  doubted  very  much  whether  she  would 
be  able  to  care  for  a  house  to  which  she  had  not 
l>een  wonted  before  her  mind  became  affected. 
Here  in  this  safe,  secluded  corner,  amid  familiar 
and  thoroughly  known  conditions,  she  moved 
placidly  about  her  daily  tasks,  performing  them 
with  the  same  care  and  precision  that  she  had 

145 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

used  from  the  beginning  of  her  married  life.  All 
the  heavy  work  was  done  for  her  by  Ivory  and 
Rodman ;  the  boy  in  particular  being  the  fleetest- 
footed,  the  most  willing,  and  the  neatest  of  help 
ers;  washing  dishes,  sweeping  and  dusting,  laying 
the  table,  as  deftly  and  quietly  as  a  girl.  Mrs. 
Boynton  made  her  own  simple  dresses  of  gray 
calico  in  summer,  or  dark  linsey-woolsey  in  winter 
by  the  same  pattern  that  she  had  used  when  she 
first  came  to  Edgewood ;  in  fact  there  were  posi- 
lively  no  external  changes  anywhere  to  be  seen, 
tragic  and  terrible  as  had  been  those  that  had 
wrought  havoc  in  her  mind. 

Waitstill's  heart  beat  faster  as  she  neared  the 
Boynton  house.  She  had  never  so  much  as  seen 
Ivory's  mother  for  years.  How  would  she  be  met? 
Who  would  begin  the  conversation,  and  what 
direction  \vould  it  take?  What  if  Mrs.  Boynton 
should  refuse  to  talk  to  her  at  all?  She  walked 
slowly  along  the  lane  until  she  saw  a  slender, 
gray-clad  figure  stooping  over  a  flower-bed  in 
front  of  the  cottage.  The  woman  raised  her  head 
with  a  fawn-like  gesture  that  had  something  in  it 
of  timidity  rather  than  fear,  picked  some  loose 
bits  of  green  from  the  ground,  and,  quietly  turn 
ing  her  back  upon  the  on-coming  stranger,  disap 
peared  through  the  open  front  door. 

There  could  be  no  retreat  on  her  own  part  now, 
146 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

thought  Wait  si  ill.  She  wished  for  a  moment  that 
she  had  made  this  first  visit  under  Ivory's  pro 
tection,  but  her  idea  had  been  to  gain  Mrs.  Boyn- 
ton's  confidence  and  have  a  quiet  friendly  talk, 
such  a  one  as  would  be  impossible  in  the  presence 
of  a  third  person.  Approaching  the  steps,  she 
called  through  the  doorway  in  her  clear  voice: 
"Ivory  asked  me  to  come  and  see  you  one  day, 
Mrs.  Boynton.  I  am  Waitstill  Baxter,  the  little 
girl  on  Town  House  Hill  that  you  used  to  know." 

Mrs.  Boynton  came  from  an  inner  room  and 
stood  on  the  threshold.  The  name  "Waitstill" 
had  always  had  a  charm  for  her  ears,  from  the 
time  she  first  heard  it  years  ago,  until  it  fell 
from  Ivory's  lips  this  summer;  and  again  it 
caught  her  fancy. 

"'Waitstill!"*  she  repeated  softly;  "'Wait- 
still!9  Does  Ivory  know  you?" 

"We've  known  each  other  for  ever  so  loin:; 
ever  since  we  went  to  the  brick  school  together 
when  we  were  girl  and  boy.  And  when  I  was  a 
child  my  stepmother  brought  me  over  here  once 
on  an  errand  and  Ivory  showed  me  a  humming- 
bird's  nest  in  that  lilac  bush  by  the4  door." 

Mrs.  Boynton  smiled.  "Come  and  look!"  she 
whimpered.  "There  is  always  a  humming-bird'fl 
nest  in  our  lilac.  How  did  you  remember?" 

The  two  women  approa< -hed  the  bush  and  Mrs. 
147 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Boynton  carefully  parted  the  leaves  to  show  the 
dainty  morsel  of  a  home  thatched  with  soft  gray- 
green  and  lined  with  down.  "The  birds  have 
flown  now,"  she  said.  "They  were  like  little 
jewels  when  they  darted  off  in  the  sunshine." 

Her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet,  as  if  it  came  from 
far  away,  and  her  eyes  looked,  not  as  if  they  were 
seeing  you,  but  seeing  something  through  you. 
Her  pale  hair  was  turned  back  from  her  paler 
face,  where  the  veins  showed  like  blue  rivers,  and 
her  smile  was  like  the  flitting  of  a  moonbeam. 
She  was  standing  very  close  to  Waitstill,  closer 
than  she  had  been  to  any  woman  for  many  years, 
and  she  studied  her  a  little,  wistfully,  yet  courte 
ously,  as  if  her  attention  was  attracted  by  some 
thing  fresh  and  winning.  She  looked  at  the  color, 
ebbing  and  flowing  in  the  girl's  cheeks;  at  her 
brows  and  lashes;  at  her  neck,  as  wrhite  as  swan's- 
down;  and  finally  put  out  her  hand  with  a  sudden 
impulse  and  touched  the  knot  of  wavy  bronze 
hair  under  the  brimmed  hat. 

"I  had  a  daughter  once,"  she  said.  "My  second 
baby  was  a  girl,  but  she  lived  only  a  few  weeks. 
I  need  her  very  much,  for  I  am  a  great  care  to 
Ivory.  He  is  son  and  daughter  both,  now  that 
Mr.  Boynton  is  away  from  home.  -  -  You  did  not 
see  any  one  in  the  road  as  you  turned  in  from  the 
bars,  I  suppose?" 

148 


Tin;  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL   BAXTER 

"No,"  answered  \Vaitslill,  surprised  and  con 
fused,  "but  I  did  n't  really  notice;  I  was  think 
ing  of  a  cool  place  for  my  horse  to  stand/' 

M  I  sit  out  here  in  t  hese  warm  afternoons,"  Mrs. 
Boynton  continued,  shading  her  eyes  and  looking 
across  the  fields,  "because  I  can  see  so  far  down 
1  he  lane.  I  have  the  supper-table  set  for  my  hus- 
band  already,  and  there  is  a  surprise  for  him,  a 
saucer  of  wild  strawberries  I  picked  for  him  this 
morning.  If  he  does  not  come,  I  always  take 
away  the  plate  and  cup  before  Ivory  gets  here; 
it  seems  to  make  him  unhappy." 

"He  does  n't  like  it  when  you  are  disappointed, 
I  suppose/'  Waitstill  ventured.  "I  have  brought 
my  knittiiiLT,  Mrs.  Boynton,  so  that  I  needn't 
keep  you  idle  if  'you  wish  to  work.  May  I  sit 
down  a  few  minutes?  And  here  is  a  cottage  cheese 
for  Ivory  and  Rodman,  and  a  jar  of  plums  for 
you,  preserved  from  my  own  garden/' 

Mrs.  Boynton's  eyes  searched  the  face  of  this 
visitor  from  a  world  she  had  almost  forgotten 
and  finding  nothing  but  tenderness  there,  said 
\viih  ju>t  a  brace  of  bewilderment:  "Thank  you, 

yes,  do  sit  down;  my  workbaskel  is  just,  in>ide 
1  he  door.  Take  that  rocking-chair;  I  don't  have 
another  one  out  here  because  I  have  never  been 
in  the  habit  of  seeing  visitor-." 

"I    hope   I   am   not    intruding,"   stammered 
149 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Waitstill,  seating  herself  and  beginning  her  knit 
ting,  to  see  if  it  would  lessen  the  sense  of  strain 
between  them. 

"Not  at  all.  I  always  loved  young  and  beauti 
ful  people,  and  so  did  my  husband.  If  he  comes 
while  you  are  here,  do  not  go  away,  but  sit  with 
him  while  I  get  his  supper.  If  Elder  Cochrane 
should  be  with  him,  you  would  see  two  wronder- 
ful  men.  They  went  away  together  to  do  some 
missionary  work  in  Maine  and  New  Hampshire 
and  perhaps  they  will  come  back  together.  I  do  not 
welcome  callers  because  they  always  ask  so  many 
difficult  questions,  but  you  are  different  and  have 
asked  me  none  at  all." 

"I  should  not  think  of  asking  questions,  Mrs. 
Boynton." 

"Not  that  I  should  mind  answering  them," 
continued  Ivory's  mother,  "except  that  it  tires 
my  head  very  much  to  think.  You  must  not 
imagine  I  am  ill;  it  is  only  that  I  have  a  very  bad 
memory,  and  when  people  ask  me  to  remember 
something,  or  to  give  an  answer  quickly,  it  con 
fuses  me  the  more.  Even  now  I  have  forgotten 
why  you  came,  and  where  you  live;  but  I  have  not 
forgotten  your  beautiful  name." 

"Ivory  thought  you  might  be  lonely,  and  I 
wanted  so  much  to  know  you  that  I  could  not 
keep  away  any  longer,  for  I  am  lonely  and  un- 

150 


THE  STORY  OF  V\ MT>TILL  BAXTER 

liappy  too.  I  am  always  watching  and  hoping  for 
what  lias  never  come  yet.  I  have  no  mother,  you 
have  lost  your  daughter;  I  thought  —  I  thought 
perhaps  we  could  be  a  comfort  to  each  other!" 
And  Waitstill  rose  from  her  chair  and  put  out 
her  hand  to  help  Mrs.  Boynton  down  the  steps, 
she  looked  so  frail,  so  transparent,  so  prematurely 
aged.  "I  could  not  come  very  often  --  but  if  I 
could  only  smooth  your  hair  sometimes  when  your 
head  aches,  or  do  some  cooking  for  you,  or  read 
to  you,  or  any  little  thing  like  that*  as  I  would 
for  my  own  mother  —  if  I  could,  I  should  be  so 
glad!" 

\\"a  it  still  stood  a  head  higher  than  Ivory's 
mother  and  the  glowiijg  health  of  her,  the  steadi 
ness  of  her  voice,  the  warmth  of  her  hand-clasp 
must  have  made  her  seem  like  a  strong  refuge  to 
this  storm-tossed  derelict.  The  deep  furrow  be 
tween  Lois  Boynton's  eyes  relaxed  a  trifle,  the 
blood  in  her  veins  ran  a  little  more  swiftly  under 
the  touch  of  the  young  hand  that  held  hers  so 
closely.  Suddenly  a  light  came  into  her  face  and 
her  lip  quivered. 

"  IVrhaps  I  have  been  remembering  wrong  all 
these  years,"  she  said.  "It  is  my'great  trmiUe, 
remembering  wrong.  Perhaps  my  baby  did  not 
die  as  I  thought;  perhaps  she  lived  and  grew 
up;  perhaps"  (her  pale  cheek  burned  and  her 

151 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

eyes  shone  like  stars)  "perhaps  she  has  come 
back!" 

Waitstill  could  not  speak;  she  put  her  arm 
round  the  trembling  figure,  holding  her  as  she 
was  wont  to  hold  Patty,  and  with  the  same  pro 
tective  instinct.  The  embrace  was  electric  in  its 
effect  and  set  altogether  new  currents  of  emotion 
in  circulation.  Something  in  Lois  Boynton's 
perturbed  mind  seemed  to  beat  its  wings  against 
the  barriers  that  had  heretofore  opposed  it,  and, 
freeing  itself,  mounted  into  clearer  air  and  went 
singing  to  the  sky.  She  rested  her  cheek  on  the 
girl's  breast  with  a  little  sob.  "Oh!  let  me  go  on 
remembering  wrong,"  she  sighed,  from  that  safe 
shelter.  "  Let  me  go  on  remembering  wrong!  It 
makes  me  so  happy!" 

Waitstill  gently  led  her  to  the  rocking-chair 
and  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  lowest  step, 
stroking  her  thin  hand.  Mrs.  Boynton's  eyes  were 
closed,  her  breath  came  and  went  quickly,  but 
presently  she  began  to  speak  hurriedly,  as  if  she 
were  relieving  a  surcharged  heart. 

"There  is  something  troubling  me,"  she  began, 
"and  it  would  ease  my  mind  if  I  could  tell  it  to 
some  one  who  could  help.  Your  hand  is  so  warm 
and  so  firm!  Oh,  hold  mine  closely  and  let  me 
draw  in  strength  as  long  as  you  can  spare  it;  it 
is  flowing,  flowing  from  your  hand  into  mine, 

152 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

flowing  like  wine.  .  .  .  My  thoughts  at  night  are 
not  like  my  thoughts  by  day,  these  last  weeks.  .  .  . 
I  wake  suddenly  and  feel  that  my  husband  has 
been  away  a  long  time  and  will  never  come  back. 
.  .  .  Often,  at  night,  too,  I  am  in  sore  trouble 
about  something  else,  something  I  have  never 
told  Ivory,  the  first  thing  I  have  ever  hidden  from 
my  dear  son,  but  I  think  I  could  tell  you,  if  only 
I  could  be  sure  about  it." 

"Tell  me  if  it  will  help  you;  I  will  try  to  under 
stand,"  said  A\7aitstill  brokenly. 

"Ivory  says  Rodman  is  the  child  of  my  dead 
sister.  Some  one  must  have  told  him  so;  could  it 
have  been  I?  It  haunts  me  day  and  night,  for 
unless  I  am  mnrml)<Tiiig  wrong  again,  I  never 
had  a  sister.  I  can  call  to  mind  neither  sister  nor 
brother." 

"You  went  to  New  Hampshire  one  winter," 
Wai  1st  ill  reminded  her  gently,  as  if  she  were  talk 
ing  to  a  child.  "It  was  bitter  cold  for  you  to 
take  such  a  hard  journey.  Your  sister  died,  and 
you  brought  her  little  boy,  Rodman,  back,  but 
you  were  so  ill  that  a  stranger  had  to  take  care 
of  you  on  the  staire-eoaeh  and  drive  you  to  Kd-<>- 
wood  next  day  in  his  own  slei.di.  It  is  no  wonder 
you  have  forgotten  somethingof  whal  happened, 
f;>r  Dr.  Perry  hardly  brought  you  through  the 
'•rain  fever  that  followed  that  journey." 

[58 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"I  seem  to  think,  now,  that  it  is  not  so! "said 
Mrs.  Boynton,  opening  her  eyes  and  looking  at 
Waitstill  despairingly.  "I  must  grope  and  grope 
in  the  dark  until  I  find  out  what  is  true,  and  then 
tell  Ivory.  God  will  punish  false  speaking!  His 
heart  is  closed  against  lies  and  evil-doing!" 

"He  will  never  punish  you  if  your  tired  mind 
remembers  wrong,"  said  Waitstill.  "He  knows, 
none  better,  how  you  have  tried  to  find  Him  and 
hold  Him,  through  many  a  tangled  path.  I  will 
come  as  often  as  I  can  and  we  will  try  to  frighten 
away  these  worrying  thoughts." 

"If  you  will  only  come  now  and  then  and  hold 
my  hand,"  said  Ivory's  mother,  —  "hold  my 
hand  so  that  your  strength  will  flow  into  my  weak 
ness,  perhaps  I si.  Jl  puzzle  it  all  out,  and  God  will 
help  me  to  remember  right  before  I  die." 

"Everything  that  I  have  power  to  give  away 
shall  be  given  to  you,"  promised  Waitstill.  "  Now 
that  I  know  you,  and  you  trust  me,  you  shall 
never  be  left  so  alone  again,  —  not  for  long,  at 
any  rate.  When  I  stay  away  you  will  remember 
that  I  cannot  help  it,  won't  you?" 

:<  Yes,  I  shall  think  of  you  till  I  see  you  again. 
I  shall  watch  the  long  lane  more  than  ever  now. 
Ivory  sometimes  takes  the  path  across  the  fields, 
but  my  dear  husband  will  come  by  the  old  road, 
and  now  there  will  be  you  to  look  for!" 


111.1.     MK    IF    IT    WILL    MKI.I'    YOU  j     I     WILL    TRY    TO 

UNDERSTAND" 


XVI 

LOCKED    OUT 

AT  the  Baxters  the  late  supper  was  over  and  the 
girls  had  not  sat  at  the  table  with  their  father, 
having  eaten  earlier,  by  themselves.  The  hired 
men  had  gone  home  to  sleep.  Patty  had  retired 
to  the  solitude  of  her  bedroom  almost  at  dusk, 
quite  worn  out  with  the  heat,  and  Waitstill  sat 
under  the  peach  tree  in  the  corner  of  her  own 
little  garden,  tatting,  and  thinking  of  her  inter 
view  with  Ivory's  mother.  She  sat  there  until 
u early  eight  o'clock,  trying  vainly  to  put  together 
the  puzzling  details  of  Lois  Boynton's  conver- 
sation,  wondering  whether  the  perplexities  that 
vexed  her  mind  were  real  or  fancied,  but  warmed 
to  the  heart  by  the  affection  that  the  older  woman 
seemed  instinctively  to  feel  for  her.  "  She  did  not 
know  me,  yet  she  cared  for  me  at  once,"  thought 
Waitstill  tenderly  and  proudly;  "and  I  for  her, 
too,  at  the  first  glance." 

She  heard  her  father  lock  the  barn  and  shed 
and  knew  that  he  would  be  going  upstairs  imme 
diately,  .so  she  quickly  went  through  the  side  yard 
and  lifted  the  latch  of  the  kitchen  door.  It  was 
fastened.  She  went  to  the  front  door  and  that, 

155 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

too,  was  bolted,  although  it  had  been  standing 
open  all  the  evening,  so  that  if  a  breeze  should 
spring  up,  it  might  blow  through  the  house.  Her 
father  supposed,  of  course,  that  she  was  in  bed, 
and  she  dreaded  to  bring  him  downstairs  for  fear 
of  his  anger;  still  there  was  no  help  for  it  and  she 
rapped  smartly  at  the  side  door.  There  was  no 
answer  and  she  rapped  again,  vexed  with  her  own 
carelessness.  Patty's  face  appeared  promptly 
behind  her  screen  of  mosquito  netting  in  the 
second  story,  but  before  she  could  exchange  a 
word  with  her  sister,  Deacon  Baxter  opened  the 
blinds  of  his  bedroom  window  and  put  his  head 
out. 

"You  can  try  sleepin'  outdoors,  or  in  the  barn 
to-night,"  he  called.  "I  did  n't  say  anything  to 
you  at  supper-time  because  I  wanted  to  see  where 
you  was  intendin'  to  prowl  this  evenin'." 

"I  haven't  been  *  prowling'  any  where,  father," 
answered  Waitstill;  "I've  been  out  in  the  garden 
cooling  off;  it's  only  eight  o'clock." 

"  Well,  you  can  cool  off  some  more,"  he  shouted, 
his  temper  now  fully  aroused;  "or  go  back  where 
you  was  this  afternoon  and  see  if  they'll  take 
you  in  there!  I  know  all  about  your  deceitful 
tricks!  I  come  home  to  grind  the  scythes  and 
found  the  house  and  barn  empty.  Cephas  said 
you'd  driven  up  Saco  Hill  and  I  took  his  horse 

156 


THE  STORY  OF  W.MTSTILL  HAXTLK 

and  followed  you  ami  sa\v  where  you  went. 
Long's  you  could  n't  have  a  feller  callin'  on  you 
here  to  home,  you  thought  you'd  call  on  him, 
did  yer,  you  bold-faced  hu8Sy?" 

"I  am  nothing  of  the  sort/'  the  girl  answered 
him  quietly;  "Ivory  Boynton  was  not  at  hi 
house,  he  was  in  the  hay-field.  You  know  it,  ami 
you  know  that  I  knew  it.  I  went  to  see  a  sick, 
unhappy  woman  who  has  no  neighbors.  I  ought  to 
have  gone  long  before.  J  am  not  ashamed  of  it, 
and  I  don't  regret  it.  If  you  ask  unreasonable 
things  of  me,  you  must  expect  to  be  disobeyed 
once  in  a  while." 

"Must  expect  to  be  disobeyed,  must  I?"  the 
old  man  cried,  his  face  positively  terrifying  in  its 
ugliness.  "We'll  see  about  that!  If  you  wa'n't 
eallin'  on  a  young  man,  you  were  callin'  on  a 
crazy  woman,  and  I  won't  have  it,  I  tell  you,  do 
you  hear?  I  won't  have  a  daughter  o'  mine  con- 
sortin'  with  any  o'  that  Boynton  crew.  Perhaps 
a  night  outdoors  will  teach  you  who's  master 
in  this  house,  you  imperdent,  shameless  girl! 
\\V11  try  it,  anyway  !"  And  with  that  he  handed 
down  the  window  and  disappeared,  gibberm.^ 
ami  jabbering  impotent  words  that  she  could 
hear  hut  not  understand. 

\Vaitstill  was  ahm»i  >l  mined  by  the  sudden 
ness  of  this  catastrophe.  She  stood  with  her  feet 

157 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

rooted  to  the  earth  for  several  minutes  and  then 
walked  slowly  away  out  of  sight  of  the  house. 
There  was  a  chair  beside  the  grindstone  under 
the  Porter  apple  tree  and  she  sank  into  it,  crossed 
her  arms  on  the  back,  and  bowing  her  head  on 
them,  burst  into  a  fit  of  weeping  as  tempestuous 
and  passionate  as  it  was  silent,  for  although  her 
body  fairly  shook  with  sobs  no  sound  escaped. 

The  minutes  passed,  perhaps  an  hour;  she  did 
not  take  account  of  time.  The  moon  went  behind 
clouds,  the  night  grew  misty  and  the  stars  faded 
one  by  one.  There  would  be  rain  to-morrow  and 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  hay  cut,  so  she  thought 
in  a  vagrant  sort  of  way. 

Meanwhile  Patty  upstairs  was  in  a  state  of 
suppressed  excitement  and  terror.  It  wras  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  her  father  settled  him 
self  in  bed;  then  an  age,  it  seemed  to  her,  before 
she  heard  his  heavy  breathing.  When  she  thought 
it  quite  safe,  she  slipped  on  a  print  wrapper,  took 
her  shoes  in  her  hand,  and  crept  noiselessly 
downstairs,  out  through  the  kitchen  and  into  the 
shed.  Lifting  the  heavy  bar  that  held  the  big 
doors  in  place  she  closed  them  softly  behind  her, 
stepped  out,  and  looked  about  her  in  the  dark 
ness.  Her  quick  eye  espied  in  the  distance,  near 
the  barn,  the  bowed  figure  in  the  chair,  and  she 
flew  through  the  wet  grass  without  a  thought  of 

158 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

her  bare  feet  till  she  reached  her  sister's  side  and 
held  her  in  a  close  embrace. 

"My  darling,  my  own,  own,  poor  darling!" 
she  cried  softly,  the  tears  running  down  her 
cheeks.  "How  wicked,  how  unjust  to  serve  my 
dearest  sister  so!  Don't  cry,  my  blessing,  don't 
cry;  you  frighten  me!  I  '11  take  care  of  you,  dear! 
Next  time  I'll  interfere;  I'll  scratch  and  bite; 
yes,  I'll  strangle  anybody  that  dares  to  shame 
you  and  lock  you  out  of  the  house!  You,  the 
dearest,  the  patientest,  the  best!" 

\\aitstill  wiped  her  eyes.  "Let  us  go  farther 
away  where  we  can  talk,"  she  whispered. 

"Where  had  we  better  sleep?"  Patty  asked. 
"On  the  hay,  1  think,  though  we  shall  stifle 
with  the  heat";  and  Patty  moved  towards  the 
barn. 

"No,  you  must  go  back  to  the  house  at  once, 
Patty  dear;  father  might  wake  and  call  you,  and 
that  would  make  matters  worse.  It's  beginning 
to  dri//le,  or  I  should  stay  out  in  the  air.  Oh!  I 
wonder  if  father's  mind  is  L^H'IILT,  and  if  this  is  the 
beginning  of  the  end!  If  he  is  in  his  sober  senses, 
he  could  not  be  so  strange,  so  suspicious,  so 
unjtut." 

"He  could  be  anything,  say  anything,  do  any 
thing,"  exclaimed  Patty.  "Perhaps  he  is  not 
responsible  and  perhaps  he  is;  it  doesn't  make 

159 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

much  difference  to  us.  Come  along,  blessed  dar 
ling!  I  '11  tuck  you  in,  and  then  I  '11  creep  back  to 
the  house,  if  you  say  I  must.  I  '11  go  down  and 
make  the  kitchen  fire  in  the  morning;  you  stay 
out  here  and  see  what  happens.  A  good  deal  will 
happen,  I  'm  thinking,  if  father  speaks  to  me  of 
you !  I  should  n't  be  surprised  to  see  the  fur 
flying  in  all  directions;  I  '11  seize  the  first  moment 
to  bring  you  out  a  cup  of  coffee  and  we  '11  consult 
about  what  to  do.  I  may  tell  you  now,  I  'm  all  for 
running  away!" 

Waitstill's  first  burst  of  wretchedness  had  sub 
sided  and  she  had  recovered  her  balance.  "I'm 
afraid  we  must  wait  a  little  longer,  Patty,"  she 
advised.  "  Don't  mention  my  name  to  father,  but 
see  how  he  acts  in  the  morning.  He  was  so  wild, 
so  unlike  himself,  that  I  almost  hope  he  may  for 
get  what  he  said  and  sleep  it  off.  Yes,  we  must 
just  wait." 

"No  doubt  he'll  be  far  calmer  in  the  morning 
if  he  remembers  that,  if  he  turns  you  out,  he  faces 
the  prospect  of  three  meals  a  day  cooked  by  me," 
said  Patty.  "That's  what  he  thinks  he  would 
face,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  shall  tell  him  that 
where  you  sleep  I  sleep,  and  where  you  eat  I  eat, 
and  when  you  stop  cooking  I  stop!  He  won't 
part  with  two  unpaid  servants  in  a  hurry,  not  at 
the  beginning  of  haying."  And  Patty,  giving 

160 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Waitstill  a  la>t   hug  and  a  dozen  tearful  kisses, 
!e  reluctantly  hack  to  the  house  by  the  same 
route  through  which  he  had  left  it. 

Patty  \\as  right.  She  found  the  fire  lighted 
when  she  went  down  into  the  kitchen  next  morn 
ing,  and  without  a  word  she  hurried  breakfa-t 
on  to  the  table  as  fast  as  she  could  cook  and 
><Tve  it.  Waitstill  was  safe  in  the  barn  chamber, 
she  knew,  and  would  be  there  quietly  while  her 
father  was  feeding  the  horse  and  milking  the 
cows;  or  perhaps  she  might  go  up  in  the  woods 
and  wait  until  she  saw  him  driving  away. 

The  Deacon  ate  his  break f:ist  in  silence,  looking 
and  acting  very  much  as  usual,  for  he  was  generally 
dumb  at  meals.  When  he  left  the  house,  how 
ever,  and  climbed  into  the  wa  1:011,  he  turned 
around  and  said  in  his  ordinary  gruff  manner: 
"Bring  the  lunch  up  to  the  field  yourself  to-day, 
Patience.  Tell  your  sister  I  hope  she 's  come  to  her 
x uses  in  the  course  of  the  night.  You've  got  to 
learn,  both  of  you,  that  my  'say-so'  must  be  law 
in  this  hon>e.  You  can  fuss  and  you  can  fume,  it 
it  amuses  you  any,  but 't  won't  do  no  good.  Don't 
encourage  Waitstill  in  any  whinin'  nor  blubber- 
iif .  Jest  tell  her  to  come  in  and  go  to  work  and 
I'll  overlook  what  she  done  this  time.  And 
don't  you  give  me  any  more  <-f  your  eye-Miappin' 
and  lip-pout  in' and  head-in-t  he-air  imperdence! 

161 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

You're  under  age,  and  if  you  don't  look  out, 
you'll  get  something  that's  good  for  what  ails 
you !  You  two  girls  jest  aid  an'  abet  one  another, 
that 's  what  you  do,  aid  an'  abet  one  another,  an' 
if  you  carry  it  any  further  I  '11  find  some  way 
o'  separatin'  you,  do  you  hear?" 

Patty  spoke  never  a  word,  nor  fluttered  an 
eyelash.  She  had  a  proper  spirit,  but  now  her 
heart  was  cold  with  a  new  fear,  and  she  felt,  with 
Waits  till,  that  her  father  must  be  obeyed  and  his 
temper  kept  within  bounds,  until  God  provided 
them  a  way  of  escape. 

She  ran  out  to  the  barn  chamber,  and,  not 
finding  Waitstill,  looked  across  the  field  and  saw 
her  coming  through  the  path  from  the  woods. 
Patty  waved  her  hand,  and  ran  to  meet  her  sis 
ter,  joy  at  the  mere  fact  of  her  existence,  of  being 
able  to  see  her  again,  and  of  hearing  her  dear 
voice,  almost  choking  her  in  its  intensity.  When 
they  reached  the  house  she  helped  her  upstairs 
as  if  she  were  a  child,  brought  her  cool  water  to 
wash  away  the  dust  of  the  haymow,  laid  out 
some  clean  clothes  for  her,  and  finally  put  her  on 
the  lounge  in  the  darkened  sitting-room. 

"I  won't  let  anybody  come  near  the  house," 
she  said,  "and  you  must  have  a  cup  of  tea  and 
a  good  sleep  before  I  tell  you  all  that  father  said. 
Just  comfort  yourself  with  the  thought  that  he  is 

162 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

going  to  'overlook  it'  this  time!  After  I  carry  up 
his  luncheon,  I  shall  stop  at  the  store  and  ask 
Cephas  to  come  out  on  the  river  bank  for  a  few 
minutes.  Then  I  shall  proceed  to  say  what  I 
think  of  him  for  telling  father  where  you  went 
yesterday  afternoon." 

"Don't  blame  Cephas!"  Waitstill  remonstra 
ted.  "Can't  you  see  just  how  it  happened?  He 
and  Uncle  Bart  were  sitting  in  front  of  the 
shop  when  I  drove  by.  When  father  came  home 
and  found  the  house  empty  and  the  horse  not  in 
the  stall,  of  course  he  asked  where  I  was,  and 
Cephas  probably  said  he  had  seen  me  drive  up 
Saco  Hill.  He  had  no  reason  to  think  that  there 
was  any  harm  in  that." 

"If  he  had  any  sense  he  might  know  that  he 
should  n't  tell  anything  to  father  except  what 
happens  in  the  store,"  Patty  insisted.  "Were  you 
frightened  out  in  the  barn  alone  last  night,  poor 
dear:- 

"I  was  too  unhappy  to  think  of  fear  and  I  was 
chiefly  IHTVOUS  about  you,  all  alone  in  the  house 
with  father." 

"I  didn't  like  it  very  much,  myself!  I  but 
toned  my  bedroom  door  aJid  sat  by  the  window 
all  night,  shivering  and  bri>tlimr  a  I  the  least 
sound.  Everybody  calls  me  a  coward,  but  I'm 
not  !  Courage  is  n't  not  beini:  fn-htenrd ;  it  's  not 

in:; 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

screeching  when  you  are  frightened.  Now,  what 
happened  at  the  Boyntons'?" 

"Patty,  Ivory's  mother  is  the  most  pathetic 
creature  I  ever  saw ! "  And  Waits  till  sat  up  on  the 
sofa,  her  long  braids  of  hair  hanging  over  her 
shoulders,  her  pale  face  showing  the  traces  of  her 
heavy  weeping.  "I  never  pitied  any  one  so  much 
in  my  whole  life !  To  go  up  that  long,  long  lane;  to 
come  upon  that  dreary  house  hidden  away  in  the 
trees;  to  feel  the  loneliness  and  the  silence;  and 
then  to  know  that  she  is  living  there  like  a  hermit- 
thrush  in  a  forest,  without  a  woman  to  care  for 
her,  it  is  heart-breaking!" 

"How  does  the  house  look,  —  dreadful?" 

"No:  everything  is  as  neat  as  wax.  She  is  n't 
'  crazy,'  Patty,  as  we  understand  the  word.  Her 
mind  is  beclouded  somehow  and  it  almost  seems 
as  if  the  cloud  might  lift  at  any  moment.  She 
goes  about  like  somebody  in  a  dream,  sewing  or 
knitting  or  cooking.  It  is  only  when  she  talks, 
and  you  notice  that  her  eyes  really  see  nothing, 
but  are  looking  beyond  you,  that  you  know  there 
is  anything  wrong." 

"If  she  appears  so  like  other  people,  why  don't 
the  neighbors  go  to  see  her  once  in  a  while?" 

"Callers  make  her  unhappy,  she  says,  and 
Ivory  told  me  that  he  dared  not  encourage  any 
company  in  the  house  for  fear  of  exciting  her, 

164 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  making  her  an  object  of  gossip,  besides.  He 
knows  her  ways  perfectly  and  that  she  is  safe 
and  content  with  her  fancies  when  she  is  alone, 
which  is  seldom,  after  all." 

"What  does  she  talk  about?"  asked  Patty. 

"Her  husband  mostly.  She  is  expecting  him 
to  come  back  daily.  AVe  knew  that  before,  of 
course,  but  no  one  can  realize  it  till  they  see  her 
setting  the  table  for  him  and  putting  a  saucer 
of  wild  strawberries  by  his  plate;  going  about  the 
kitchen  softly,  like  a  gentle  ghost." 

"It  gives  me  the  shudders!"  said  Patty.  "I 
couldn't  bear  it!  If  she  never  sees  strangers, 
what  in  the  world  did  she  make  of  you?  How  did 
you  begin?" 

"I  told  her  I  had  known  Ivory  ever  since  we 
were  school  children.  She  was  rather  strange  and 
indifferent  at  first,  and  then  she  seemed  to  take  a 
fancy  to  me." 

'That's  queer!  "said  Patty,  smiling  fondly  and 
giving  \YaiM  ill's  hair  the  hasty  brush  of  a  kiss. 

"She  told  me  she  had  had  a  girl  baby,  horn 
two  or  three  years  after  Ivory,  and  that  she  had 
always  thought  it  died  when  it  was  a  few  we< 
old.   Then  suddenly  she  came  closer  to  me  - 

"Oh!  Waity,  weren't  you  terrified?" 

"No,  not  in  the  least.  Neither  would  you  have 
been  if  yon  had  been  there.  She  put  her 

165 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

round  me  and  all  at  once  I  understood  that  the 
poor  thing  mistook  me  just  for  a  moment  for  her 
own  daughter  come  back  to  life.  It  was  a  sudden 
fancy  and  I  don't  think  it  lasted,  but  I  did  n't 
know  how  to  deal  with  it,  or  contradict  it,  so  I 
simply  tried  to  soothe  her  and  let  her  ease  her 
heart  by  talking  to  me.  She  said  when  I  left  her: 
*  Where  is  your  house?  I  hope  it  is  near!  Do  come 
again  and  sit  with  me.  Strength  flows  into  my 
weakness  when  you  hold  my  hand ! '  I  somehow 
feel,  Patty,  that  she  needs  a  woman  friend  even 
more  than  a  doctor.  And  now,  what  am  I  to  do? 
How  can  I  forsake  her;  and  yet  here  is  this  new 
difficulty  with  father?" 

"I  should  n't  forsake  her;  go  there  when  you 
can,  but  be  more  careful  about  it.  You  told 
father  that  you  did  n't  regret  what  you  had  done, 
and  that  when  he  ordered  you  to  do  unreason 
able  things,  you  should  disobey  him.  After  all, 
you  are  not  a  black  slave.  Father  will  never 
think  of  that  particular  thing  again,  perhaps, 
any  more  than  he  ever  alluded  to  my  driving  to 
Saco  with  Mrs.  Day  after  you  had  told  him  it 
was  necessary  for  one  of  us  to  go  there  occasion 
ally.  He  knows  that  if  he  is  too  hard  on  us,  Dr. 
Perry  or  Uncle  Bart  would  take  him  in  hand. 
They  would  have  done  it  long  ago  if  we  had  ever 
given  any  one  even  a  hint  of  what  we  have  to 

166 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

endure.  You  will  be  all  right,  because  you  only 
want  to  do  kind,  neighborly  things.  I  am  the 
one  that  will  always  have  to  suffer,  because  I 
can't  prove  that  it's  a  Christian  duty  to  deceive 
father  and  steal  off  to  a  dance  or  a  frolic.  Yet  I 
might  as  well  be  a  nun  in  a  convent  for  all  the 
fun  I  get!  I  want  a  white  book-muslin  dress;  I 
want  a  pair  of  thin  shoes  with  buckles;  I  want  a 
white  hat  with  a  wreath  of  yellow  roses;  I  want 
a  volume  of  Byron's  poems;  and  oh!  nobody 
knows  —  nobody  but  the  Lord  could  understand 
-  how  I  want  a  string  of  gold  beads.'' 

"  Patty,  Patty!  To  hear  you  chatter  anybody 
would  imagine  you  thought  of  nothing  but  fri 
volities.  I  wish  you  would  n't  do  yourself  such 
injustice;  even  when  nobody  hears  you  but  me, 
it  is  wrong." 

"Sometimes  when  you  think  I'm  talking  non 
sense  it's  really  the  gospel  truth,"  said  Patty. 
"Tin  not  a  grand,  splendid  character,  Waitslill, 
and  it's  no  use  your  deceiving  yourself  about  me; 
if  you  do,  you'll  be  disappointed." 

"Go  and  parboil  the  beans  and  get  them  into 
the  pot,  Patty.  Pick  up  some  of  t  lie  windfalls  and 
make  a  green-apple  pie,  and  I'll  be  with  you  in 
the  kitchen  myself  before  long.  I  never  expect  to 
be  disappointed  in  you,  Patty,  only  continually 
surprise*  1  and  pleased." 

167 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKII 

"I  thought  I'd  begin  making  some  soft  soap 
to-day,"  said  Patty  mischievously,  as  she  left  the 
room.  "We  have  enough  grease  saved  up.  We 
don't  really  need  it  yet,  but  it  makes  such  a  dis 
gusting  smell  that  I'd  rather  like  father  to  have 
it  with  his  dinner.  It 's  not  much  of  a  punishment 
for  our  sleepless  night." 


AUTUMN 


XVII 

A    BRACE   OF    LOVERS 

HAYING  was  over,  and  the  close,  sticky  dog-days, 
too,  and  August  was  slipping  into  September. 
There  had  been  plenty  of  rain  all  the  season  and 
the  countryside  was  looking  as  fresh  and  green  as 
an  emerald.  The  hillsides  were  already  clothed 
with  a  verdant  growth  of  new  grass  and 

"The  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal  flowers 
Hung  motionless  upon  their  upright  staves." 

How  they  gleamed  in  the  meadow  grasses  and 
alnnii1  the  brooksides  like  brilliant  flecks  of  flame, 
giving  a  new  beauty  to  the  nosegays  that 
Waitstill  carried  or  sent  to  Mrs.  Boynton  every 
week. 

To  the  eye  of  the  casual  observer,  life  in  the 
two  little  villages  by  the  river's  brink  went  on  as 
p-acefully  as  ever, but  then-  were  subtle  changes 
Inking  place  nevertheless.  Cephas  Cole  had 
"a.xkrd"  the  second  time  and  Again  had  l.een 
refused  by  Patty,  so  that  evm  a  very  idiot  for 
hopefulness  could  not  urge  his  father  to  put 
another  story  on  the  ell. 

"If  il  turns  out  to  be  Phoebe  Day/'  thought 
171 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Cephas  dolefully,  "two  rooms  is  plenty  good 
enough,  an'  I  shan't  block  up  the  door  that  leads 
from  the  main  part,  neither,  as  I  thought  likely 
I  should.  If  so  be  it 's  got  to  be  Phoebe,  not  Patty, 
I  shan't  care  whether  mother  troops  out  'n'  in  or 
not."  And  Cephas  dealt  out  rice  and  tea  and 
coffee  with  so  languid  an  air,  and  made  such  fre 
quent  mistakes  in  weighing  the  sugar,  that  he 
drew  upon  himself  many  a  sharp  rebuke  from  the 
Deacon. 

"  Of  course  I'd  club  him  over  the  head  with  a  salt 
fish  twice  a  day  under  ord'nary  circumstances," 
Cephas  confided  to  his  father  with  a  valiant  air 
that  he  never  wore  in  Deacon  Baxter's  presence; 
"  but  I  've  got  a  reason,  known  to  nobody  but  my 
self,  for  wan  tin'  to  stan'  well  with  the  old  man  for 
a  spell  longer.  If  ever  I  quit  wantin'  to  stan'  well 
with  him,  he'll  get  his  comeuppance,  short  an' 
sudden!" 

"Spcakin'  o'  standin'  well  with  folks,  Phil 
Perry's  kind  o'  makin'  up  to  Patience  Baxter, 
ain't  he,  Cephas?"  asked  Uncle  Bart  guardedly. 
"Mebbe  you  would  n't  notice  it,  hevin'  no  p.-ir- 
tic'lar  int'rest,  but  your  mother's  kind  o'  got  the 
idee  into  her  head  lately,  an'  she's  tumble  far- 
sighted." 

"I  guess  it's  so!"  Cephas  responded  gloomily. 
"It's  nip  an'  tuck  'tween  him  an'  Mark  Wilson. 

172 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

That  girl  draws  Viu  as  molasses  does  flies!  She 
does  it  'thout  liftin'  a  finger,  too,  no  more  'n  the 
molasses  does.  She  just  sets  still  an'  /'.v  /  An'  all 
the  time  she's  nothin'  but  a  flighty  little  red 
headed  spitfire  that  don't  know  a  good  husband 
when  she  sees  one.  The  feller  that  gits  her  will 
live  to  regret  it,  that 's  my  opinion ! "  And  Cephas 
thought  to  himself:  "Good  Lord,  don't  I  wish  I 
was  regrettin'  it  this  very  minute!" 

"  I  s'pose  a  girl  like  PI i<  el  >e  Day  'd  be  consid'able 
less  trouble  to  live  with?"  ventured  Uncle  Bart. 

"I  never  could  take  any  fancy  to  that  tow  hair 
o'  hern!  I  like  the  color  well  enough  when  I'm 
peeling  it  off  a  corn  cob,  but  I  don't  like  it  on 
a  girl's  head,"  objected  Cephas  hypercritical ly. 
"An'  her  eyes  hain't  got  enough  blue  in  'em  to  be 
blue:  they're  jest  like  skim-milk.  An'  she  keeps 
her  mouth  open  a  little  mite  all  the  time,  jest  as 
if  there  wa'n't  no  good  draught  through,  an'  she 
was  a-tryin'  to  git  air.  An'  't  was  me  that  begun 
callin'  her  *  Feeble  Phoebe'  in  school,  an'  the 
scholars'll  never  forgit  it;  they'd  throw  it  up  to 
me  the  whole  Murin'  time  if  I  should  go  to  work 
an'  keep  company  with  her!" 

"  Mebbe  they've  forgot  by  this  time,"  Uncle 
Bart  responded  hopefully;  "though  't  is  an  awful 
resk  when  you  think  <>'  ( 'ompanion  Tike!  Samuel 
he  \\  as  baptized  and  Samuel  he  continued  to  be, 

173 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

till  he  married  the  Widder  Bixby  from  Water- 
boro.  Bein'  as  how  there  wa'n't  nothin'  partic'ly 
attractive  'bout  him,  —  though  he  was  as  nice  a 
feller  as  ever  lived,  —  somebody  asked  her  why 
she  married  him,  an'  she  said  her  cat  hed  jest  died 
an'  she  wanted  a  companion.  The  boys  never  let 
go  o'  that  story!  Samuel  Pike  he  ceased  to  be 
thirty  year  ago,  an'  Companion  Pike  he's  re 
mained  up  to  this  instant  minute!" 

"He  ain't  lived  up  to  his  name  much,"  re 
marked  Cephas.  "He 's  to  home  for  his  meals,  but 
I  guess  his  wife  never  sees  him  between  times." 

"If  the  cat  hed  lived  mebbe  she'd  'a'  been 
better  comp'ny  on  the  whole,"  chuckled  Uncle 
Bart.  "Companion  was  allers  kind  o'  dreamy 
an'  absent-minded  from  a  boy.  I  remember 
askin'  him  what  his  wife's  Christian  name  was 
(she  bein'  a  stranger  to  Riverboro)  an'  he  said  he 
did  n't  know!  Said  he  called  her  Mis'  Bixby 
afore  he  married  her  an'  Mis'  Pike  afterwards!" 

"Well,  there's  something  tumble  queer  'bout 
this  marryin'  business,"and  Cephas  drew  a  sigh 
from  the  heels  of  his  boots.  "It  seems  's  if  a  man 
hed  n't  no  natcheral  drawin'  towards  a  girl  with  a 
good  farm  'n'  stock  that  was  willin'  to  have  him ! 
Seems  jest  as  if  it  set  him  ag'in'  her  somehow! 
And  yet,  if  you've  got  to  sing  out  o'  the  same 
book  with  a  girl  your  whole  lifetime,  it  does 

174 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

seem's  if  you'd  ought  to  have  a  kind  of  a  fancy 
for  her  at  the  start,  anyhow!" 

"You  may  feel  dif  rent  as  time  goes  on,  Cephas, 
an'  come  to  see  Feeble  --  I  would  say  Phoebe  - 
as  your  mother  does.  'The  best  fire  don't  flare  up 
the  soonest,'  you  know."  But  old  Uncle  Bart  saw 
that  his  son's  heart  was  heavy  and  forbore  to 
press  the  subject. 

Annabel  Franklin  had  returned  to  Boston 
after  a  month's  visit  and  to  her  surprise  had 
returned  as  disengaged  as  she  came.  Mark 
Wilson,  thoroughly  bored  by  her  vacuities  of 
mind,  longed  now  for  more  intercourse  with 
Patty  Baxter,  Patty,  so  gay  and  unexpected;  so 
lively  to  talk  with,  so  piquing  to  the  fancy,  so 
skittish  and  difficult  to  manage,  so  temptingly 
pretty,  with  a  beauty  all  her  own,  and  never  two 
days  alike. 

There  were  many  lions  in  the  way  and  these 
only  added  to  the  zest  of  pursuit.  With  all  the 
other  girls  of  the  village  opportunities  multiplied, 
but  he  could  scarcely  get  ten  minutes  alone  with 
Patty.  The  Deacon's  orders  were  absolute  in 
regard  to  young  men.  His  daughters  were  never 
to  drive  or  walk  alone  with  thorn,  never  go  to 
dances  or  "routs"  of  any  sort,  and  never  reeeive 
thorn  at  the  house;  this  last  mandate  bein^  <juite 
unnecessary,  as  no  youth  in  his  right  mind  would 

175 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

have  gone  a-courtin'  under  the  Deacon's  forbid 
ding  gaze.  And  still  there  were  sudden,  delicious 
chances  to  be  seized  now  and  then  if  one  had  his 
eyes  open  and  his  wits  about  him.  There  was  the 
walk  to  or  from  the  singing-school,  when  a  senti 
mental  couple  could  drop  a  few  feet,  at  least, 
behind  the  rest  and  exchange  a  word  or  two  in 
comparative  privacy;  there  were  the  church 
"circles"  and  prayer-meetings,  and  the  intervals 
between  Sunday  services  when  Mark  could  de 
tach  Patty  a  moment  from  the  group  on  the 
meeting-house  steps.  More  valuable  than  all 
these,  a  complete  schedule  of  Patty's  various 
movements  here  and  there,  together  writh  a  pro 
found  study  of  Deacon  Baxter's  habits,  which 
were  ordinarily  as  punctual  as  they  were  dis 
agreeable,  permitted  Mark  many  stolen  inter 
views,  as  sweet  as  they  were  brief.  There  was 
never  a  second  kiss,  however,  in  these  casual 
meetings  and  partings.  The  first,  in  springtime, 
had  found  Patty  a  child,  surprised,  unprepared. 
She  was  a  woman  now;  for  it  does  not  take 
years  to  achieve  that  miracle;  months  will  do  it, 
or  days,  or  even  hours.  Her  summer's  experience 
with  Cephas  Cole  had  wonderfully  broadened  her 
powers,  giving  her  an  assurance  sadly  lacking 
before,  as  well  as  a  knowledge  of  detail,  a  certain 
finished  skill  in  the  management  of  a  lover,  which 

176 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

she  could  ably  use  on  any  one  who  happened  to 
come  along.  And,  at  the  moment,  any  one  who 
happened  to  come  along  served  the  purpose 
admirably,  Philip  Perry  as  well  as  Marquis 
Wilson; 

Young  Perry's  interest  in  Patty,  as  we  have 
seen,  began  with  his  alienation  from  Ellen  Wilson, 
t  lie  first  object  of  his  affections,  and  it  was  not  at 
the  outset  at  all  of  a  sentimental  nature.  Philip 
was  a  pillar  of  the  church,  and  Ellen  had  proved 
so  entirely  lacking  in  the  religious  sense,  so  self- 
sat  isfied  as  to  her  standing  with  the  heavenly 
powers,  that  Philip  dared  not  expose  himself 
longer  to  her  society,  lest  he  find  himself  "un 
equally  yoked  together  with  an  unbeliever,"  thus 
defying  the  scriptural  admonition  as  to  mar 
riage. 

Patty,  though  somewhat  lacking  in  the  qualities 
that  go  to  the  making  of  trustworthy  saints, 
was  not,  like  Ellen,  wholly  given  over  to  the 
fleshpots  and  would  prove  a  valuable  convert, 
Philip  thought;  one  who  would  reflect  great 
credit  upon  him  it'  he  succeeded  in  inducing  her 
to  subscribe  to  the  .stern  cn-cd  of  the  day. 

Philip  was  a  very  >lrenuous  and  slightly 
gloomy  believer,  duelling  considerably  on  the 
wrath  of  (iod  and  the  doctrine  of  eternal  pun 
ishment.  Then4  was  an  old  "pennyroyal"  hymn 

177 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

much  in  use  which  describes  the  general  tenor  of 
his  meditation :  - 

"My  thoughts  on  awful  subjects  roll, 

Damnation  and  the  dead. 
What  horrors  seize  the  guilty  soul 
Upon  a  dying  bed." 

(No  wonder  that  Jacob  Cochrane's  lively  songs, 
cheerful,  hopeful,  militant,  and  bracing,  fell  with 
a  pleasing  sound  upon  the  ear  of  the  believer 
of  that  epoch.)  The  love  of  God  had,  indeed, 
entered  Philip's  soul,  but  in  some  mysterious  way 
had  been  ossified  after  it  got  there.  He  had 
intensely  black  hair,  dark  skin,  and  a  liver  that 
disposed  him  constitutionally  to  an  ardent  belief 
in  the  necessity  of  hell  for  most  of  his  neighbors, 
and  the  hope  of  spending  his  own  glorious  immor 
tality  in  a  small,  properly  restricted,  and  pru 
dently  managed  heaven.  He  was  eloquent  at 
prayer-meeting  and  Patty's  only  objection  to 
him  there  was  in  his  disposition  to  allude  to  him 
self  as  a  "rebel  worm,"  with  frequent  references 
to  his  "vile  body."  Otherwise,  and  when  not 
engaged  in  theological  discussion,  Patty  liked 
Philip  very  much.  His  own  father,  although  an 
orthodox  member  of  the  fold  in  good  and  regular 
standing,  had  "doctored"  Phil  conscientiously 
for  his  liver  from  his  youth  up,  hoping  in  time  to 
incite  in  him  a  sunnier  view  of  life,  for  the  doctor 

178 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

was  somewhat  skilled  in  adapting  his  remedies  to 
spiritual  maladies.  Jed  Merrill  had  always  said 
that  when  old  Mrs.  Buxton,  the  champion  con 
vert  of  Jacob  Cochrane,  was  at  her  worst,  — 
keeping  her  whole  family  awake  nights  by  her 
hysterical  fears  for  their  future,  —  Dr.  Perry 
had  given  her  a  twelfth  of  a  grain  of  tartar  emetic, 
five  times  a  day  until  she  had  entire  mental  re 
lief,  and  her  anxiety  concerning  the  salvation  of 
her  husband  and  children  was  set  completely 
at  rest. 

The  good  doctor  noted  with  secret  pleasure  his 
son's  growing  fondness  for  the  society  of  his 
prime  favorite,  Miss  Patience  Baxter.  "He'll 
begin  by  trying  to  save  her  soul,"  he  thought; 
"Phil  always  begins  that  way,  but  when  Patty 
gets  him  in  hand  he  '11  remember  the  existence  of 
his  heart,  an  organ  he  has  never  taken  into  con 
sideration.  A  love  affair  with  a  pretty  girl,  good 
but  not  too  pious,  will  help  Phil  considerable, 
however  it  turns  out." 

There  is  no  doubt  but  that  Phil  was  taking  his 
chances  and  that  under  Patty's  tutelage  he  urafl 
•  wing  mellower.  As  for  Patty,  she  was  only 
amusing  herself,  and  frisking,  like  a  young  laml>, 
in  pastures  where  >he  had  never  >t  rayed  before. 
Her  fancy  flew  from  Mark  to  Phil  and  from  Phil 
back  to  Mark  again,  for  at  the  moment  she  \\.t- 

179 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

just  a  vessel  of  emotion,  ready  to  empty  herself 
on  she  knew  not  what.  Temperamentally,  she 
would  take  advantage  of  currents  rather  than 
steer  at  any  time,  and  it  would  be  the  strongest 
current  that  would  finally  bear  her  away.  Her 
idea  had  always  been  that  she  could  play  with 
fire  without  burning  her  own  fingers,  and  that  the 
flames  she  kindled  were  so  innocent  and  mild 
that  no  one  could  be  harmed  by  them.  She  had 
fancied,  up  to  now,  that  she  could  control,  urge 
on,  or  cool  down  a  man's  feeling  forever  and  a 
day,  if  she  chose,  and  remain  mistress  of  the 
situation.  Now,  after  some  weeks  of  weighing 
and  balancing  her  two  swains,  she  found  herself 
confronting  a  choice,  once  and  for  all.  Each  of 
them  seemed  to  be  approaching  the  state  of  mind 
where  he  was  likely  to  say,  somewhat  violently : 
:<Take  me  or  leave  me,  one  or  the  other!"  But 
she  did  not  wish  to  take  them,  and  still  less  did 
she  wish  to  leave  them,  with  no  other  lover  in 
sight  but  Cephas  Cole,  who  was  almost,  though 
not  quite,  worse  than  none. 

If  matters,  by  lack  of  masculine  patience  and 
self-control,  did  come  to  a  crisis,  what  should  she 
say  definitely  to  either  of  her  suitors?  Her  father 
despised  Mark  Wilson  a  trifle  more  than  any 
young  man  on  the  river,  and  while  he  could  have 
no  objection  to  Phil  Perry's  character  or  position 

180 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  HAXTI 

in  the  world,  his  haired  •  f  old  Dr.  Perry  amounted 
to  a  disease.  When  the  doctor  had  closed  the 
ey<  B  oi'  the  third  Mrs.  Baxter,  he  had  made  sonic 
p'ain  and  unwelcome  statements  that  would 
rankle  in  the  Deacon's  breast  as  long  as  he  lived. 
Tally  knew,  therefore,  that  the  chance  of  her 
father's  blessing  falling  upon  her  union  with  either 
of  her  present  lovers  was  more  than  uncertain, 
and  of  what  use  was  an  engagement,  if  there 
could  not  be  a  mam'; 

If  Patty's  mind  inclined  to  a  somewhat  speedy 
departure  from  her  father's  household,  she  can 
hardly  be  blamed,  but  she  felt  that  she  could  not 
carry  any  of  her  indecisions  and  fears  to  her  sister 
for  settlement.  Who  could  look  in  Wait. still's 
clear,  steadfast  eyes  and  say:  <k  I  can't  make  up 
my  mind  which  to  marry"?  Not  Patty.  She 
felt,  instinctively,  that  Waitst ill's  heart,  if  it 
moved  at  all,  would  rush  out  like  a  great  river 
to  lose  itself  in  the  ocean,  and  losing  itself  forget 
the  narrow  hanks  through  which  it  had  flowed 
before.  Patty  knew  that  her  own  love  was  at  t  he 
moment  nothing  more  than  the  note  of  a  ehild'> 
penny  flute,  and  that  Waitstill  was  perhaps  vi 
brating  secretly  wilh  a  deeper,  richer  mu>ic  than 
could  ever  come  to  her.  Slill,  mu>ic  oi  BOme  sort 
she  meant  to  feel.  "Even  if  they  make  me  decide 
one  way  or  another  before  I  *m  ready,"  she  said 

181 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

to  herself,  "I'll  never  say  'yes9  till  I'm  more  in 
love  than  I  am  now!" 

There  were  other  reasons  why  she  did  not  want 
to  ask  Waitstill's  advice.  Not  only  did  she 
shrink  from  the  loving  scrutiny  of  her  sister's 
eyes,  and  the  gentle  probing  of  her  questions, 
which  would  fix  her  own  motives  on  a  pin-point 
and  hold  them  up  unbecomingly  to  the  light;  but 
she  had  a  foolish,  generous  loyalty  that  urged 
her  to  keep  Waitstill  quite  aloof  from  her  own 
little  private  perplexities. 

"She  will  only  worry  herself  sick,"  thought 
Patty.  "She  won't  let  me  marry  without  asking 
father's  permission,  and  she'd  think  she  ought 
not  to  aid  me  in  deceiving  him,  and  the  tempest 
would  be  twice  as  dreadful  if  it  fell  upon  us  both! 
Now,  if  anything  happens,  I  can  tell  father  that 
I  did  it  all  myself  and  that  Waitstill  knew  nothing 
about  it  whatever.  Then,  oh,  joy!  if  father  is  too 
terrible,  I  shall  be  a  married  woman  and  I  can 
always  say:  'I  will  not  permit  such  cruelty! 
Waitstill  is  dependent  upon  you  no  longer;  she 
shall  come  at  once  to  my  husband  and  me ! ' ' 

This  latter  phrase  almost  intoxicated  Patty,  so 
that  there  were  moments  when  she  could  have 
run  up  to  Milliken's  Mills  and  purchased  herself 
a  husband  at  any  cost,  had  her  slender  savings 
permitted  the  best  in  the  market;  and  the  more 

182 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

impersonal  the  husband  the  more  delightedly 
Patty  rolled  the  phrase  under  her  tongue. 

"I  can  never  be  *  published'  in  church,"  she 
thought,  "  and  perhaps  nobody  will  ever  care 
enough  about  me  to  brave  father's  displeasure 
and  insist  on  running  away  with  me.  I  do  \vi-h 
somebody  would  care  'frightfully'  about  me, 
enough  for  that;  enough  to  help  me  make  up  my 
mind;  so  that  I  could  just  drive  up  to  father's 
store  some  day  and  say:  'Good  afternoon,  father! 
I  knew  you'd  never  let  me  marry  -  '  (there 
was  always  a  dash  here,  in  Patty's  imaginary 
discourses,  a  dash  that  could  be  filled  in  with  any 
Christian  name  according  to  her  mood  of  the 
moment)  "'so  I  just  married  him  anyway;  and 
you  need  n't  be  angry  wi  I  h  my  sister,  for  she  knew 
nothing  about  it.  My  husband  and  I  are  sorry  if 
you  are  displeased,  but  there's  no  help  for  it;  and 
my  husband's  home  will  always  be  open  to  Wait- 
still,  whatever  happens." 

Patty,  with  all  her  la  lent  love  of  finery  and 
ease,  did  not  weigh  the  worldly  circumstances  of 
the  two  men,  though  the  reflection  that  she  would 

have  more  amusement  with  Mark  than  with 
Philip  may  have  erossed  her  mind.  She  trust e  ! 
Philip,  and  respeeled  ln\  .steady-going,  -eri'ms 
view  of  life;  it  pleased  her  vanity,  too,  t  »  f»  1 
how  her  nonsense  and  fun  lightened  his  tempera- 

183 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

mental  gravity,  playing  in  and  out  and  over  it 
like  a  butterfly  in  a  smoke  bush.  She  would  be 
safe  with  Philip  always,  but  safety  had  no  special 
charm  for  one  of  her  age,  who  had  never  been  in 
peril.  Mark's  superior  knowledge  of  the  world, 
moreover,  his  careless,  buoyant  manner  of  carry 
ing  himself,  his  gay,  boyish  audacity,  all  had  a 
very  distinct  charm  for  her;  —  and  yet  - 

But  there  would  be  no  "and  yet"  a  little  later. 
Patty's  heart  would  blaze  quickly  enough  when 
sufficient  heat  was  applied  to  it,  and  Mark  was 
falling  more  and  more  deeply  in  love  every  day. 
As  Patty  vacillated,  his  purpose  strengthened; 
the  more  she  weighed,  the  more  he  ceased  to 
weigh,  the  difficulties  of  the  situation;  the  more 
she  unfolded  herself  to  him,  the  more  he  loved 
and  the  more  he  respected  her.  She  began  by 
delighting  his  senses;  she  ended  by  winning  all 
that  there  was  in  him,  and  creating  continually 
the  qualities  he  lacked,  after  the  manner  of 
true  women  even  when  they  are  very  young  and 
foolish. 


XVIII 

A    STATE   O'  MAINE    PROPHET 

SUMMER  was  dying  hard,  for  although  it  In;- 1 
passed,  by  the  calendar,  Mother  Nature  was  still 
keeping  up  her  customary  attitude. 

There  had  been  a  soft  rain  in  the  night  ai  <1 
every  spear  of  grass  was  brilliantly  green  and 
tipped  with  crystal.  The  smoke  bushes  in  the 
garden  plot,  and  the  asparagus  bed  beyond  them, 
looked  misty  as  the  sun  rose  higher,  drying  the 
soaked  earth  and  dripping  branches.  Spiders' 
webs,  marvels  of  lace,  dotted  the  short  grass 
under  the  apple  trees.  Every  flower  that  had  a 
fragrance  was  pouring  it  gratefully  into  the  air; 
every  bird  with  a  joyous  note  in  its  voice  gave  it 
more  joyously  from  a  bursting  throat;  and  the 
river  laughed  and  rippled  in  the  distance  at  the 
foot  of  Town  House  Hill.  Then  <ia\vn  grew  into 
full  morning  and  streams  of  blue  smoke  rose  here 
and  there  from  the  Kd  ire  wood  chimneys.  The 
world  was  alive,  and  so  beautiful  that  \Vaitstill 
felt  like  going  down  on  her  knee>  in  gratitude  f<  r 
having  been  born  into  it  and  given  a  chance  of 
>erving  it  in  any  humble  \\  ay  \\hatx.ever. 

185 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Wherever  there  was  a  barn,  in  Riverboro  or 
Edgewood,  one  could  have  heard  the  three-legged 
stools  being  lifted  from  the  pegs,  and  then  would 
begin  the  music  of  the  milk-pails;  first  the  reso 
nant  sound  of  the  stream  on  the  bottom  of  the 
tin  pail,  then  the  soft  delicious  purring  of  the 
cascade  into  the  full  bucket,  while  the  cows 
serenely  chewed  their  cuds  and  whisked  away 
the  flies  with  swinging  tails. 

Deacon  Baxter  was  taking  his  cows  to  a  pas 
ture  far  over  the  hill,  the  feed  having  grown  too 
short  in  his  own  fields.  Patty  was  washing  dishes 
in  the  kitchen  and  Waitstill  was  in  the  dairy- 
house  at  the  butter-making,  one  of  her  chief 
delights.  She  worked  with  speed  and  with  beauti 
ful  sureness,  patting,  squeezing,  rolling  the  golden 
mass,  like  the  true  artist  she  was,  then  turning 
the  sweet-scented  waxen  balls  out  of  the  mould 
on  to  the  big  stone-china  platter  that  stood 
waiting.  She  had  been  up  early  and  for  the  last 
hour  she  had  toiled  with  devouring  eagerness 
that  she  might  have  a  little  time  to  herself.  It 
was  hers  now,  for  Patty  would  be  busy  with 
the  beds  after  she  finished  the  dishes,  so  she 
drew  a  folded  paper  from  her  pocket,  the  first 
communication  she  had  ever  received  in  Ivory's 
handwriting,  and  sat  down  to  read  it. 


186 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

MY  DEAR  WAITSTILL:  — 

Rodman  will  take  this  packet  and  leave  it  with  you 
when  he  finds  opportunity.  It  is  not  in  any  real  sense  a 
letter,  so  I  am  in  no  danger  of  incurring  your  father's  dis 
pleasure.  You  will  probably  have  heard  new  rumors  con 
cerning  my  father  during  the  past  few  days,  for  Peter 
Morrill  has  been  to  Enfield,  New  Hampshire,  where  he  says 
letters  have  been  received  stating  that  my  father  died  in 
Cortland,  Ohio,  more  than  five  years  ago.  I  shall  do  what  I 
can  to  substantiate  this  fresh  report  as  I  have  always  done 
with  all  the  previous  ones,  but  I  have  little  hope  of  securing 
reliable  information  at  this  distance,  and  after  this  length 
of  time.  I  do  not  know  \\  lien  I  can  ever  start  on  a  personal 
quest  myself,  for  even  had  I  the  money  I  could  not  leave 
home  until  Rodman  is  much  older,  and  fitted  for  greater 
responsibility.  Oh!  Waitstill,  how  you  have  helped  my 
poor,  dear  mother!  Would  that  I  wrere  free  to  tell  you  how 
I  value  your  friendship!  It  is  something  more  than  mere 
friendship!  What  you  are  doing  is  like  throwing  a  life-line 
to  a  sinking  human  being.  Two  or  three  times,  of  late. 
mother  has  forgotten  to  set  out  the  supper  things  for  my 
father.  Her  ten  years'  incessant  waiting  for  him  seems  to 
have  subsided  a  little,  and  in  its  place  she  watches  for  you. 
[Ivory  had  written  "watches  for  her  daughter"  but  care 
fully  erased  the  last  two  words.]  You  come  but  seldom, 
but  her  heart  feeds  on  the  sight  of  you.  What  she  needed, 
it  .semis,  was  the  magical  touch  of  youth  and  health  and 
strength  and  sympathy,  the  qualities  you  possess  in  su<  h 
great  measure. 

If  I  had  proof  of  my  father's  death  I  think  now,  perhaps, 

187 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

that  I  might  try  to  break  it  gently  to  my  mother,  as  if  it 
were  fresh  news,  and  see  if  possibly  I  might  thus  remove 
her  principal  hallucination.  You  see  now,  do  you  not,  how 
sane  she  is  in  many,  indeed  in  most  ways,  —  how  sweet 
and  lovable,  even  how  sensible? 

To  help  you  better  to  understand  the  influence  that  has 
robbed  me  of  both  father  and  mother  and  made  me  and 
mine  the  subject  of  town  and  tavern  gossip  for  years  past, 
I  hare  written  for  you  just  a  sketch  of  the  "Cochrane 
craze";  the  romantic  story  of  a  man  who  swayed  the  wills 
of  his  fellow-creatures  in  a  truly  marvellous  manner.  Some 
local  historian  of  his  time  will  doubtless  give  him  more 
space;  my  wish  is  to  have  you  know  something  more  of  the 
circumstances  that  have  made  me  a  prisoner  in  life  instead 
of  a  free  man;  but  prisoner  as  I  am  at  the  moment,  I  am 
sustained  just  now  by  a  new  courage.  I  read  in  my  copy  of 
Ovid  last  night:  "The  best  of  weapons  is  the  undaunted 
heart."  This  will  help  you,  too,  in  your  hard  life,  for  yours 
is  the  most  undaunted  heart  in  all  the  world. 

IVORY  BOYNTON. 

The  chronicle  of  Jacob  Cochrane's  career  in 
the  little  villages  near  the  Saco  River  has  no  such 
interest  for  the  general  reader  as  it  had  for  Wait- 
still  Baxter.  She  hung  upon  every  word  that 
Ivory  had  written  and  realized  more  clearly  than 
ever  before  the  shadow  that  had  followed  him 
since  early  boyhood;  the  same  shadow  that  had 
fallen  across  his  mother's  mind  and  left. continual 
twilight  there. 

188 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTII.L  BAXTER 

No  one  really  knew,  it  seemed,  why  or  from 
whence  Jacob  Cochrane  had  come  to  Edgewood. 
He  simply  appeared  at  the  old  tavern,  a  stranger, 
with  satchel  in  hand,  to  seek  entertainment. 
Uncle  Bart  had  often  described  this  scene  to 
\\aitstill,  for  he  was  one  of  those  sitting  about 
the  great  open  fire  at  the  time.  The  man  easily 
slipped  into  the  group  and  soon  took  the  lead  in 
conversation,  delighting  all  with  his  agreeable 
personality,  his  nimble  tongue  and  graceful 
>P'"ech.  At  supper-time  the  hostess  and  the  rest 
of  the  family  took  their  places  at  the  long  table, 
as  was  the  custom,  and  he  astonished  them  by 
hi>  knowledge  not  only  of  town  history,  but  of  vil 
lage  matters  they  had  supposed  unknown  to  any 
one. 

When  the  stranger  had  finished  his  supper  and 
returned  to  the  bar-room,  he  had  to  pass  through 
a  long  entry,  and  the  landlady,  whispering  to  her 
daughter,  said:  - 

"Betsy,  you  go  up  to  the  chamber  closet  and 
get  the  silver  and  bring  it  down.  This  man  is 
going  to  sleep  there  and  1  am  afraid  of  him.  He 
must  be  a  fortune-teller,  and  the  Lord  only  knov,  s 
what  else!" 

In  going  to  the  chamber  the  daughter  had  to 
pasfl  through  the  bar-room.  As  she  was  moving 
quietly  through,  hoping  to  escape  the  notice  of 

189 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

the  newcomer,  he  turned  in  his  chair,  and  looking 
her  full  in  the  face,  suddenly  said:  - 

"Madam,  you  needn't  touch  your  silver.  I 
don't  want  it.  I  am  a  gentleman." 

AVhereupon  the  bewildered  Betsy  scuttled  back 
to  her  mother  and  told  her  the  strange  guest  was 
indeed  a  fortune-teller. 

Of  Cochrane's  initial  appearance  a.i  a  preacher 
Ivory  had  told  Waitstill  in  their  talk  in  the 
churchyard  early  in  the  summer.  It  was  at  a 
child's  funeral  that  the  new  prophet  created 
his  first  sensation  and  there,  too,  that  Aaron  and 
Lois  Boynton  first  came  under  his  spell.  The 
whole  countryside  had  been  just  then  wrought 
up  to  a  state  of  religious  excitement  by  revival 
meetings  and  Cochrane  gained  the  benefit  of  this 
definite  preparation  for  his  work.  He  claimed 
that  all  his  sayings  were  from  divine  inspiration 
and  that  those  who  embraced  his  doctrine  re 
ceived  direct  communication  from  the  Almighty. 
Pie  disdained  formal  creeds  and  all  manner  of 
church  organizations,  declaring  sectarian  names 
to  be  marks  of  the  beast  and  all  church  members 
to  be  in  Babylon.  He  introduced  re-baptism  as  a 
symbolic  cleansing  from  sectarian  stains,  and 
after  some  months  advanced  a  proposition  that 
his  flock  hold  all  things  in  common.  He  put  a 
sudden  end  to  the  solemn  "deaconing-out"  and 

190 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

droning  of  psalm  tunes  and  grafted  on  to  his  form 
of  worship  lively  sinking  and  marching  accom 
panied  by  clapping  of  hands  and  whirling  in  cir 
cles;  during  the  progress  of  which  the  most  hys 
terical  converts,  or  the  most  fully  "Cochranized," 
would  swoon  upon  the  floor;  or,  in  obeying  their 
loader's  instructions  to  "become  as  little  chil 
dren,"  would  sometimes  go  through  the  most  ex 
traordinary  and  unmeaning  antics. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  converted  hundreds  to 
the  new  faith  that  he  added  more  startling  revela 
tions  to  his  gospel.  He  was  in  turn  bold,  mysti 
cal,  eloquent,  audacious,  persuasive,  autocratic; 
and  even  when  his  self-styled  "communications 
from  the  Almighty'9  controverted  all  that  his 
hearers  had  formerly  held  to  be  right,  he  still 
magnet  i/ed  or  hypnoti/ed  them  into  an  unwilling 
assent  to  hi>  beliefs.  There  was  finally  a  proclama- 
lion  to  the  etl'rel  that  marriage  vows  were  to  be 
annulled  when  advisable  and  that  complete  spirit 
ual  liberty  was  to  follow;  a  liberty  in  which  a  new 
aliinity  might  be  sought,  ami  a  spiritual  union 
begun  upon  earth,  a  union  as  nearly  approximate 
to  God's  standards  as  faulty  human  beings  could 
manaur«'  to  attain. 

Some  of  the  faithful  fell  away  at  this  time, 
being  unable  to  aeeept  the  full  doctrine,  but 
retained  their  faith  in  Cochrane's  original  power 

191 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTEI: 

to  convert  sinners  and  save  them  from  the  wrath 
of  God.  Storm-clouds  began  to  gather  in  the  sky, 
however,  as  the  delusion  spread,  month  by  month, 
and  local  ministers  everywhere  sought  to  mini 
mize  the  influence  of  the  dangerous  orator,  who 
rose  superior  to  every  attack  and  carried  himself 
like  some  magnificent  martyr-at-will  among  the 
crowds  that  now  criticized  him  here  or  there  in 
private  and  in  public. 

"What  a  picture  of  splendid  audacity  he  must 
have  been,"  wrote  Ivory,  "when  he  entered  the 
orthodox  meeting-house  at  a  huge  gathering 
where  he  knew  that  the  speakers  were  to  de 
nounce  his  teachings.  Old  Parson  Buzzell  gave 
out  his  text  from  the  high  pulpit:  Mark  xm,  37, 
4  A  nd  what  I  say  unto  you  I  say  unto  all,  watch  !' 
Just  here  Cochrane  stepped  in  at  the  open  door 
of  the  church  and  heard  the  warning,  meant,  he 
knew,  for  himself,  and  seizing  the  moment  of 
silence  following  the  reading  of  the  text,  he  cried 
in  his  splendid  sonorous  voice,  without  so  much 
as  stirring  from  his  place  within  the  door-frame: 
"  '  Behold  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.  If  any 
man  hear  my  voice  I  will  come  in  to  him  and  will 
sup  with  him,  —  I  come  to  preach  the  everlasting 
gospel  to  every  one  that  heareth,  and  all  that  I 
want  here  is  my  bigness  on  the  floor/  ' 

"I  cannot  find,"  continued  Ivory  on  another 
192 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

.  "  th;i(  my  father  or  mother  ever  engaged  in 
any  of  the  foolish  and  childish  practices  which 
disgraced  the  meetings  of  some  of  Cochrane's 
most  fanatical  followers  and  converts.  By  my 
mother's  conversations  (some  of  which  I  have 
repeated  to  you,  hut  which  may  he  full  of  errors, 
because  of  her  confusion  of  mind),  I  believe  she 
must  have  had  a  difference  of  opinion  with  my 
father  on  some  of  these  views,  but  I  have  no 
means  of  knowing  this  to  a  certainty;  nor  do  I 
know  that  the  question  of  *  choosing  spiritual  con 
sorts'  ever  came  between  or  divided  them.  This 
part  of  the  delusion  always  fills  me  with  such 
unspeakable  disgu-f  that  I  have  never  liked  to 
seek  additional  light  from  any  of  the  older  men 
and  women  v.  ho  might  revel  in  giving  it.  That 
my  mother  did  not  sympathize  with  my  father's 
going  out  to  preach  ( 'oehrane's  gospel  through 
the  country,  this  I  know,  and  she  was  so  truly 
religious,  so  burning  with  xeal,  that  had  she  fully 
believed  in  my  father's  mission  she4  would  have 
spurred  him  on,  instead  of  endeavoring  to  detain 
him." 

''You  know  the  retribution  that  overtook 
Cochrane  at  last,"  wrote  Ivory  again,  when  he 
had  shown  the  man's  early  victories  and  his 
enormous  influence.  "There  began  to  be  indig 
nant  protests  against  his  doctrines  by  lawvers 

193 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  doctors,  as  well  as  by  ministers;  not  from  all 
sides,  however;  for  remember,  in  extenuation  of 
my  father's  and  my  mother's  espousal  of  this 
strange  belief,  that  many  of  the  strongest  and 
wisest  men,  as  well  as  the  purest  and  finest 
women  in  York  County  came  under  this  man's 
spell  for  a  time  and  believed  in  him  implicitly, 
some  of  them  even  unto  the  end. 

"  Finally  there  was  Cochrane's  arrest  and 
examination,  the  order  for  him  to  appear  at  the 
Supreme  Court,  his  failure  to  do  so,  his  recap 
ture  and  trial,  and  his  sentence  of  four  years' 
imprisonment  on  several  counts,  in  all  of  which 
he  was  proved  guilty.  Cochrane  had  all  along 
said  that  the  Anointed  of  the  Lord  would  never 
be  allowed  to  remain  in  jail,  but  he  was  mistaken, 
for  he  stayed  in  the  State's  Prison  at  Charles- 
town,  Massachusetts,  for  the  full  duration  of  his 
sentence.  Here  (I  am  again  trying  to  plead  the 
cause  of  my  father  and  mother) ,  here  he  received 
much  sympathy  and  some  few  visitors,  one  of 
whom  walked  all  the  way  from  Edge  wood  to 
Boston,  a  hundred  and  fifteen  miles,  with  a  peti 
tion  for  pardon,  a  petition  which  was  delivered, 
and  refused,  at  the  Boston  State  House.  Coch 
rane  issued  from  prison  a  broken  and  humiliated 
man,  but  if  report  says  true,  is  still  living,  far  out  of 
sight  and  knowledge,  somewhere  in  New  Hamp- 

194 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

shire.  He  once  sent  my  father  an  epitaph  of  his 
own  selection,  asking  him  to  have  it  carved  upon 
his  gravestone  should  he  die  suddenly  when  away 
from  his  friends.  My  mother  often  repeats  it,  not 
realizing  how  far  from  the  point  it  sounds  to  us 
who  never  knew  him  in  his  glory,  but  only  in  his 
downfall. 

"'He  spread  his  arms  full  wide  abroad, 
His  works  are  ever  before  his  God, 
His  name  on  earth  shall  long  remain, 
Though  envious  sinners  fret  in  vain.'  ' 

"We  are  certain,"  concluded  Ivory,  "that  my 
father  preached  with  Cochrane  in  Limington, 
Limerick,  and  Parsonsfield;  he  also  wrote  from 
Knfield  and  Effingham  in  New  Hampshire;  after 
that,  all  is  silence.  Various  reports  place  him  in 
Boston,  in  New  York,  even  as  far  west  as  Ohio, 
whether  as  Cochranite  evangelist  or  what  not, 
ala>!  we  can  never  know.  I  despair  of  ever  trac 
ing  his  steps.  I  only  hope  that  he  died  before  he 
wandered  too  widely,  either  from  his  belief  in 
(i<>d  or  his  fidelity  to  my  mother's  long-suffering 
love." 

Waitstill    read    tin*   letter   twice   through   and 

replaced  it  in  her  dress  to  rend  aurain  at  night.    It 

incd  the  only  taiiLriMe  evidence  of  Ivory's  love 

that  >he  had  ever  received  and  she  warmed  her 

195 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

heart  with  what  she  felt  that  he  had  put  between 
the  lines. 

"  Would  that  I  were  free  to  tell  you  how  I  value 
your  friendship!"  "My  mother's  heart  feeds  on 
the  sight  of  you!"  "I  want  you  to  know  some 
thing  of  the  circumstances  that  have  made  me  a 
prisoner  in  life,  instead  of  a  free  man."  "Yours 
is  the  most  undaunted  heart  in  all  the  world!" 
These  sentences  Waitstill  rehearsed  again  and 
again  and  they  rang  in  her  ears  like  music,  con 
verting  all  the  tasks  of  her  long  day  into  a  deep 
and  silent  joy. 


XIX 

AT    THE    BRICK   STORE 

THERE  were  two  grand  places  for  gossip  in  the 
community;  the  old  tavern  on  the  Edgewood  side 
of  the  bridge  and  the  brick  store  in  Riverboro. 
The  company  at  the  Kdgewood  Tavern  would  be 
a  trifle  different  in  character,  more  picturesque, 
imposing,  and  eclectic  because  of  the  transient 
guests  that  gave  it  change  and  variety.  Hen* 
might  be  found  a  judge  or  a  lawyer  on  his  wry  to 
court;  a  sheriff  with  a  handcuffed  prisoner;  a 
farmer  or  two,  stopping  on  the  road  to  market 
with  a  cartful  of  produce;  and  an  occasional 
teamster,  peddler,  and  stage-driver.  On  winter 
nights  champion  story-tellers  like  Jed  Morrill 
and  Hi>h  Hixby  would  drop  in  there  and  hang 
their  woollen  neck-comforters  on  the  pegs  along 
the  wall-side,  where  there  were  already  hats,  top- 
coats,  and  fur  muiller-.  aa  well  U  Btackfl  "f  \\  hip-, 
canes,  and  ox-goads  standing  in  the  corners.  They 
would  then  enter  the  room,  rubbing  their  hands 
nally,  and,  nodding  to  Companion  Pike,  (Yphas 
Cole,  Phil  Terry  and  other-,  <-n>conce  themselves 
Muigly  in  the  group  by  the  great  open  fireplace. 
The  landlord  was  alway-  -lad  to  see  them  enter, 

197 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

for  their  stories,  though  old  to  him,  were  new  to 
many  of  the  assembled  company  and  had  a 
remarkable  effect  on  the  consumption  of  liquid 
refreshment. 

On  summer  evenings  gossip  was  languid  in  the 
village,  and  if  any  occurred  at  all  it  would  be  on 
the  loafer's  bench  at  one  or  the  other  side  of  the 
bridge.  When  cooler  weather  came  the  group  of 
local  wits  gathered  in  Riverboro,  either  at  Uncle 
Bart's  joiner's  shop  or  at  the  brick  store,  accord 
ing  to  fancy.  The  latter  place  was  perhaps  the 
favorite  for  Riverboro  talkers.  It  was  a  large, 
two-story,  square,  brick  building  with  a  big- 
mouthed  chimney  and  an  open  fire.  When  every 
house  in  the  two  villages  had  six  feet  of  snow 
around  it,  roads  would  always  be  broken  to 
the  brick  store,  and  a  crowd  of  ten  or  fifteen 
men  would  be  gathered  there  talking,  listening, 
betting,  smoking,  chewing,  bragging,  playing 
checkers,  singing,  and  "swapping  stories." 

Some  of  the  men  had  been  through  the  War  of 
1812  and  could  display  wounds  received  on  the 
field  of  valor ;  others  were  still  prouder  of  scars  won 
in  encounters  with  the  Indians,  and  I  IKMV  was  one 
old  codger,  a  Revolutionary  veteran,  Bill  Dunham 
by  name,  who  would  add  bloody  tales  of  his 
encounters  with  the  "Husshons."  His  courage 
had  been  so  extraordinary  and  his  slaughter  so 

198 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

colossal  that  his  hearers  marvelled  that  there  was 
a  Hessian  left  to  tell  his  side  of  the  story,  and  Bill 
himself  doubted  if  such  were  the  case. 

"  T  is  an  awful  sin  to  have  on  your  soul,"  Bill 
would  say  from  his  place  in  a  dark  corner,  where 
he  would  sit  with  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his 
eyes  till  the  psychological  moment  came  for  the 
"Husshons"  to  be  trotted  out.  "'T  is  an  awful 
sin  to  have  on  your  soul,  — the  extummination  of 
a  race  o'  men;  even  if  they  wa'n't  nothin'  more'n 
so  many  ignorant  cockroaches.  Them  was  the 
great  days  for  fightin'!  The  Husshons  was  the 
biggest  men  I  ever  seen  on  the  field,  most  of  'em 
standin'  six  feet  eight  in  their  stockin's,  -  -  but 
Lord!  how  we  walloped  'em!  Once  we  had  a 
cannon  mounted  an'  loaded  for  'em  that  was  so 
large  we  had  to  draw  the  ball  into  it  with  a  yoke 
of  oxen!" 

Bill  paused  from  force  of  habit,  just  as  he  had 
paused  for  the  last  twenty  years.  There  had 
been  times  when  roars  of  incredulous  laughter 
had  Creeled  t  his  boast,  but  most  of  this  particular 
group  had  heard  the  yarn  more  than  once  and 
let  it  pass  with  a  smile  and  a  wink,  remembering 
I  he  night  that  Abel  Day  had  asked  old  Bill  how 
they  got  the  oxen  out  of  the  cannon  on  that  most 
memorable  occasion. 

"Oh!"  said  Bill,  "that  was  easy  enough;  wo 
199 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

jest  unyoked  'em  an'  turned  'em  out  o'  the  prim- 
in'-hole!" 

It  was  only  early  October,  but  there  had  been 
a  killing  frost,  and  Ezra  Simms,  who  kept  the 
brick  store,  flung  some  shavings  and  small  wood 
on  the  hearth  and  lighted  a  blaze,  just  to  induce 
a  little  trade  and  start  conversation  on  what 
threatened  to  be  a  dull  evening.  Peter  Morrill, 
Jed's  eldest  brother,  had  lately  returned  from  a 
long  trip  through  the  state  and  into  New  Hamp 
shire,  and  his  adventures  by  field  and  flood  were 
always  worth  listening  to.  He  went  about  the 
country  mending  clocks,  and  many  an  old  time 
piece  still  bears  his  name,  with  the  date  of  re 
pairing,  written  in  pencil  on  the  inside  of  its  door. 

There  was  never  any  lack  of  subjects  at  the 
brick  store,  the  idiosyncracies  of  the  neighbors 
being  the  most  prolific  source  of  anecdote  and 
comment.  Of  scandal  about  women  there  was 
little,  though  there  would  be  occasional  harmless 
pleasantries  concerning  village  love  affairs; 
prophecies  of  what  couple  would  be  next  "pub 
lished"  in  the  black-walnut  frame  up  at  the 
meeting-house;  a  genial  comment  on  the  number 
and  chances  of  Patience  Baxter's  various  beaux; 
and  whenever  all  else  failed,  the  latest  story  of 
Deacon  Baxter's  parsimony,  in  which  the  village 
traced  the  influence  of  heredity. 

200 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

44 He  can't  hardly  help  it,  inheritirT  it  on  both 
sides,"  was  Abel  Day's  opinion.  "The  Baxters 
was  allers  snug,  from  time  'memorial,  and  Foxy  's 
the  snuggest  of  'em.  When  I  look  at  his  ugly  mug 
an*  hear  his  snarlin'  voice,  I  thinks  to  myself, 
he  's  goin'  the  same  way  his  father  did.  When  old 
Levi  Baxter  was  left  a  widder-man  in  that  house 
o'  his'n  up  river,  he  grew  wuss  an'  wuss,  if  you 
remember,  till  he  wa'n't  hardly  human  at  the 
last ;  and  I  don't  believe  Foxy  even  went  up  to 
his  own  father's  funeral." 

44 'T  would  V  served  old  Levi  right  if  nobody 
else  had  gone,"  said  Rish  Bixby.  "  W'hen  his  wife 
died  he  refused  to  come  into  the  house  till  the  last 
minute.  He  stayed  to  work  in  the  barn  until  all 
the  folks  had  assembled,  and  even  the  men  were 
all  settin'  down  on  benches  in  the  kitchen.  The 
parson  sent  me  out  for  him,  and  I'm  blest  if  the 
old  skunk  did  n't  come  in  through  the  crowd  with 
his  sleeves  rolled  up, --went  to  the  sink  and 
washed,  and  then  set  down  in  the  room  where  the 
coffin  was,  as  cool  as  a  cowcumber. " 

"I  remember  that  funeral  well,"  corroborated 
Abel  Day.  44An'  Mis'  Day  heerd  Levi  say  to  his 
daughter,  as  soon  as  they'd  put  poor  old  Mrs. 
Baxter  int'  I  he  irrave:  'Come  on,  Marthy;  there's 
no  use  cryin'  over  spilt  milk;  we'd  better  go 
home  an'  husk  out  the  rest  o'  that  corn.'  Old 

201 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Foxy  could  have  inherited  plenty  o'  meanness 
from  his  father,  that's  certain,  an'  he's  added  to 
his  inheritance  right  along,  like  the  thrifty  man 
he  is.  I  hate  to  think  o'  them  two  fine  girls  wear- 
in'  their  fingers  to  the  bone  for  his  benefit." 

"Oh,  well!  't  won't  last  forever,"  said  Rish 
Bixby.  :<  They 're  the  han'somest  couple  o'  girls 
on  the  river  an'  they  '11  get  husbands  afore  many 
years.  Patience '11  have  one  pretty  soon,  by  the 
looks.  She  never  budges  an  inch  but  Mark  Wil 
son  or  Phil  Perry  are  follerin'  behind,with  Cephas 
Cole  watchin'  his  chance  right  along,  too.  Wait- 
still  don't  seem  to  have  no  beaux;  what  with 
flyin'  around  to  keep  up  with  the  Deacon,  an* 
bein'  a  mother  to  Patience,  her  hands  is  full,  I 
guess." 

"If  things  was  a  little  mite  dif'rent  all  round, 
I  could  prognosticate  who  Waitstill  could  keep 
house  for,"  was  Peter  Merrill's  opinion. 

"You  mean  Ivory  Boynton?  Well,  if  the  Dea 
con  was  asked  he  'd  never  give  his  consent,  that 's 
certain;  an'  Ivory  ain't  in  no  position  to  keep 
a  wife  anyways.  What  was  it  you  heerd  'bout 
Aaron  Boynton  up  to  New  Hampshire,  Peter?" 
asked  Abel  Day. 

"Consid'able,  one  way  an'  another;  an'  none 
of  it  would  'a'  been  any  comfort  to  Ivory.  I  guess 
Aaron  'n'  Jake  Cochrane  was  both  of  'em  more 

202 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

interested  in  savin*  the  sisters'  souls  than  the 
brothers'!  Aaron  was  a  fine-appear  in'  man,  and 
so  was  Jake  for  that  matter,  'n'  they  both  had 
the  gift  o'  gab.  There's  nothin'  like  a  limber 
tongue  if  you  want  to  please  the  women-folks! 
If  report  says  true,  Aaron  died  of  a  fever  out  in 
Ohio  somewheres;  Cortland  's  the  place,  I  b'lieve. 
Seems 's  if  he  hid  his  trail  all  the  way  from  New 
Hampshire  somehow,  for  as  a  usual  thing,  a  man 
o'  book-larnin'  like  him  would  be  remembered 
wherever  he  went.  Wouldn't  you  call  Aaron 
Boynton  a  tumble  larned  man,  Timothy?" 

Timothy  Grant,  (lie  parish  clerk,  had  just 
entered  the  store  on  an  errand,  but  being  direetly 
addressed,  and  judging  that  the  subject  under 
discussion  was  a  discreet  one,  and  that  it  was  too 
early  in  the  evening  for  drinking  to  begin,  he 
joined  the  group  by  the  fireside.  He  had  preached 
in  Vermont  for  several  years  as  an  itinerant 
Methodist  minister  before  settling  down  to  farm 
ing  in  Edge  wood,  only  giving  up  hi^  profession 
because  his  quiver  was  so  full  of  little  (irants  that 
a  wandering  life  was  difficult  and  undesirable. 
When  Uncle  Hart  Cole  had  remarked  that  M  >' 
Grant  had  a  little  of  everything  in  the  way  of 
baby-stock  now,  —  black,  red.  an'  yaller-haire'l. 
dark  and  light  complected,  fat  an'  lean,  tall 
an'  short,  twins  an'  Mii-'lr-.  J-v!  Morri!!  l:a«l 

203 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

observed  dryly :  "  Yes,  Mis'  Grant  kind  o'  reminds 
me  of  charity." 

"How's  that?"  inquired  Uncle  Bart. 

"She  beareth  all  things,"  chuckled  Jed. 

"Aaron  Boynton  was,  indeed,  a  man  of  most 
adhesive  larnin',"  agreed  Timothy,  who  had  the 
reputation  of  the  largest  and  most  unusual  vo 
cabulary  in  Edgewood.  "Next  to  Jacob  Cochrane 
I  should  say  Aaron  had  more  grandeloquence  as 
an  orator  than  any  man  we  Ve  ever  had  in  these 
parts.  It  don't  seem's  if  Ivory  was  goin'  to  take 
after  his  father  that  way.  The  little  feller,  now,  is 
smart 's  a  whip,  an'  could  talk  the  tail  off  a  brass 
monkey." 

;<Yes,  but  Rodman  ain't  no  kin  to  the  Boyn- 
tons,"  Abel  reminded  him.  "He  inhails  from  the 
other  side  o'  the  house." 

'That's  so;  well  Ivory  does,  for  certain,  an' 
takes  after  his  mother,  right  enough,  for  she 
hain't  spoken  a  dozen  words  in  as  many  years,  I 
guess.  Ivory's  got  a  sight  o'  book-knowledge, 
though,  an'  they  do  say  he  could  talk  Greek  an' 
Latin  both,  if  we  had  any  of  'em  in  the  com 
munity  to  converse  with.  I've  never  paid  no 
intention  to  the  dead  languages,  bein'  so  ocker- 
pied  with  other  studies." 

"  Why  do  they  call  'em  the  dead  languages, 
Tim?"  asked  Rish  Bixby. 

204 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"  Because  all  them  that  ever  spoke  'em  has 
perished  off  the  face  o'  the  land,"  Timothy 
answered  oracularly.  "Dead  an'  gone  they  be, 
lock,  stock,  an'  barrel ;  yet  there  was  a  time  when 
Latins  an'  Cru>taeeans  an'  Hebrews  an'  Proosh- 
iaus  an'  Australians  an'  Simesians  was  chatterin' 
away  in  their  own  tongues,  an'  so  pow'ful  that 
they  was  wallopin'  the  whole  earth,  you  might 
say." 

"I  bet  yer  they  never  tried  to  wallop  these 
here  United  States,"  interpolated  Bill  Dunham 
from  the  dark  corner  by  the  molasses  hogs 
head. 

"Is  Ivory  in  here?"  The  door  opened  and 
Rodman  Boynton  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"No,  sonny,  Ivory  ain't  been  in  this  evenin'," 
replied  Ezra  Simms.  "I  hope  there  ain't  nothin' 
the  matter  over  to  your  house?" 

"No,  nothing  particular,"  the  boy  answered 
hesitatingly;  "only  Aunt  Boynton  don't  seem 
so  well  as  common  and  I  can't  find  Ivory  any- 
when  -." 

"Come  along  with  me;  I'll  help  you  look  for 
him  an'  then  I'll  go  as  fur  as  the  lane  with  \<T 
if  we  don't  find  him."  And  kindly  Push  Hixby 
took  the  boy's  hand  and  left  the  store. 

"Mis'  Boynton 's  had  a  spell,  I  guess!"  sug 
gested  the  storekeeper,  peering  through  the  door 

205 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

into  the  darkness.   "  'T  ain't  like  Ivory  to  be  out 
nights  and  leave  her  to  Rod." 

"She  don't  have  no  spells,"  said  Abel  Day. 
"Uncle  Bart  sees  consid'able  of  Ivory  an'  he  says 
his  mother  is  as  quiet  as  a  lamb.  —  Could  n't 
you  git  no  kind  of  a  certif 'cate  of  Aaron's  death 
out  o'  that  Enfield  feller,  Peter?  Seems 's  if  that 
poor  woman 'd  oughter  be  stopped  watchin'  for  a 
dead  man;  tuckerin'  herself  all  out,  an'  keepin' 
Ivory  an'  the  boy  all  nerved  up." 

"I've  told  Ivory  everything  I  could  gether  up 
in  the  way  of  information,  and  give  him  the  names 
of  the  folks  in  Ohio  that  had  writ  back  to  New 
Hampshire.  I  did  n't  dialate  on  Aaron's  goin's- 
on  in  Effingham  an'  Portsmouth,  cause  I  dassay 
't  was  nothin'  but  scandal.  Them  as  hates  the 
Cochranites '11  never  allow  there's  any  good  in 
'em,  whereas  I  've  met  some  as  is  servin'  the  Lord 
good  an'  constant,  an'  indulgin'  in  no  kind  of  fool 
ishness  an'  deviltry  whatsoever." 

"Speakin'  o'  Husshons,"  said  Bill  Dunham 
from  his  corner,  "I  remember  - 

"We  wa'n't  alludin'  to  no  Husshons,"  retorted 
Timothy  Grant.  "We  was  dealin'  with  the  mis 
fortunes  of  Aaron  Boynton,  who  never  fit  valor- 
iously  on  the  field  o'  battle,  but  perished  out  in 
Ohio  of  scarlit  fever,  if  what  they  say  in  Enfield 
is  true." 

206 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

"Tis  an  easy  death,"  remarked  Bill  argu- 
mentatively.  "Scarlit  fever  don't  seem  like 
nothin'  to  me!  Many's  the  time  IVe  been  close 
enough  to  fire  at  the  eyeball  of  a  Husshon,  an' 
run  the  resk  o'  bein'  blown  to  smithereens!  - 
calm  and  cool  I  allers  was,  too!  Scarlit  fever  is 
an  easy  death  from  a  warrior's  p'int  o'  view  ! " 

"Speakin'  of  easy  death,"  continued  Timothy, 
"you  know  I  'm  a  great  one  for  words,  bein'  some 
thing  of  a  scholard  in  my  small  way.  Mebbe 
you  noticed  that  Elder  Boone  used  a  strange 
word  in  his  sermon  last  Sunday?  Now  an'  then, 
when  there's  too  many  yawnin'  to  once  in  the 
congregation,  Parson '11  out  with  a  reg'lar  jaw 
breaker  to  wake  'em  up.  The  word  as  near  as  I 
could  ketch  it  was  'youthinasia/  I  kep'  holt  of 
it  till  noontime  an'  then  I  run  home  an'  looked 
1 1m  muli  all  them's  in  the  dictionary  without  findin' 
it.  Mebbe  it's  Hebrew,  I  thinks,  for  Hebrew's 
like  his  mother's  tongue  to  Parson,  so  I  went  rigli  t 
up  to  him  at  afternoon  meelin'  an'  says  to  him: 
*  What's  the  exact  meanin'  of  "youthinasia  "t 
Then'  ain't  noseeli  word  in  the//'s  in  my  Webster/ 
says  I.  *  Look  in  them's,  Timothy;  "euthanasia," 
says  he,  ' means  easy  death';  aif  now,  don't  it 
beat  all  that  Bill  Dunham  should  have  brought 
that  expression  of  *  easy  death'  into  this  evenin's 
talk?" 

207 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"I  know  youth  an'  I  know  Ashy/'  said  Abel 
Day,  "but  blessed  if  I  know  why  they  should 
mean  easy  death  when  they  yoke  'em  together." 

:< That's  because  you  ain't  never  paid  no 
'tention  to  entomology,"  said  Timothy.  "Aaron 
Boynton  was  master  o'  more  'ologies  than  you 
could  shake  a  stick  at,  but  he  used  to  say  I  beat 
him  on  entomology.  Words  air  cur'ous  things 
sometimes,  as  I  know,  hevin'  had  consid'able 
leisure  time  to  read  when  I  was  joggin'  'bout  the 
country  an'  bein'  brought  into  con  tack  with  men 
o'  learnin'.  The  way  I  worked  it  out,  not  wishin' 
to  ask  Parson  any  more  questions,  bein'  some 
thing  of  a  scholard  myself,  is  this:  The  youth  in 
Ashy  is  a  peculiar  kind  o'  youth,  'n'  their  religion 
disposes  'em  to  lay  no  kind  o'  stress  on  huming 
life.  When  anything  goes  wrong  with  'em  an' 
they  get  a  set-back  in  war,  or  business,  or  affairs 
with  women-folks,  they  want  to  die  right  off;  so 
they  take  a  sword  an'  stan'  it  straight  up 
wherever  they  happen  to  be,  in  the  shed  or  the 
barn,  or  the  henhouse,  an'  they  p'int  the  slurp 
end  right  to  their  waist-line,  where  the  bowels  an* 
other  vital  organisms  is  lowcated;  an'  then  they 
fall  on  to  it.  It  runs  'em  right  through  to  the  back 
an'  kills  'em  like  a  shot,  and  that's  the  way  I 
cal'late  the  youth  in  Ashy  dies,  if  my  entomology 
is  correct,  as  it  gen'ally  is." 

208 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKI: 

"Don't  seem  an  easy  death  to  me,"  argued 
Ezra,  "but  I  ain't  no  scholard.  What  college  did 
you  attend  to,  Tim?  M 

"I  don't  hold  no  diaploma,"  responded  Tim- 
otliy,  "though  I  attended  to  Wareham  Academy 
quite  a  spell,  the  same  time  as  your  sister  was 
goin'  to  Wareham  Seminary  where  eddication  is 
still  bein'  disseminated  though  of  an  awful  poor 
kind,  compared  to  the  old  times." 

"It's  live  an'  larn,"  said  the  storekeeper  re 
spectfully.  "  I  never  thought  of  a  Seminary  bein' 
a  place  of  dissemination  before,  but  you  can  see 
the  two  words  is  near  kin." 

;*You  can't  allers  tell  by  the  sound,"  said 
Timothy  instructively.  "  Sometimes  two  words  '11 
start  from  the  same  root,  an' branch  out  diff'rent, 
like  'critter'  an'  'hypocritter.'  A  'hypocritter' 
must  natcherally  start  by  bein' a  '  critter ,'  but  a 
critter  ain't  obliged  to  be  a  4  hypocritter '  'thout 
he  wants  to." 

"I  should  hope  not,"  interpolated  Abel  Day. 
piously.  "Entomology  must  be  an  awful  intnv>l- 
in'  >tudy,  though  I  never  thought  of  obxTvin' 
words  myself,  'cept  to  avoid  vulgar  language  an' 
profanity." 

"Husshon'fl  a  nir'ous  word  fora  man."  inter 
jected  Bill  Dunham  with  a  last,  despairing  (4ll'ort. 
"I  remember  seem'  a  Hn»lion  once  that  - 

409 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Perhaps  you  ain't  one  to  observe  closely, 
Abel,"  said  Timothy,  not  taking  note  of  any 
interruption,  simply  using  the  time  to  direct  a 
stream  of  tobacco  juice  to  an  incredible  distance, 
but  landing  it  neatly  in  the  exact  spot  he  had 
intended.  "It's  a  trade  by  itself,  you  might  say, 
observin'  is,  an'  there's  another  sing'lar  corrap- 
tion!  The  Whigs  in  foreign  parts,  so  they  say, 
build  stone  towers  to  observe  the  evil  machina 
tions  of  the  Tories,  an'  so  the  word  'observatory* 
come  into  general  use!  All  entomology;  nothin' 
but  entomology." 

"I  don't  see  where  in  thunder  you  picked  up 
so  much  larnin',  Timothy!"  It  was  Abel  Day's 
exclamation,  but  every  one  agreed  with  him. 


XX 

THE    ROD    THAT    BLOSSOMED 

IVORY  BOYNTON  had  taken  the  horse  and  gone 
to  the  village  on  an  errand,  a  rare  thing  for  him 
to  do  after  dark,  so  Rod  was  thinking,  as  he  sat 
in  the  living-room  learning  his  Sunday-School 
lesson  on  the  same  evening  that  the  men  were 
gossiping  at  the  brick  store.  His  aunt  had  re 
quired  him,  from  the  t  ime  when  he  was  proficient 
enough  to  do  so,  to  read  at  least  a  part  of  a  chap 
ter  in  the  Bible  every  night.  Beginning  with 
Genesis  he  had  reached  Leviticus  and  had  made 
up  his  mind  that  the  Bible  wns  a  much  more 
difficult  book  than  "Scottish  Chiefs,"  notwith 
standing  the  fact  that  Ivory  helped  him  over 
most  of  the  hard  places.  At  the  present  juncture 
he  was  vastly  interested  in  the  subject  of  "rods" 
as  unfolded  in  the  book  of  Kxodus,  which  wafl 
bciiiij  studied  by  his  Sunday-School  cla--.  \\  hat 
added  to  the  excitement  was  the  fact  that  his 
uncle's  Christian  name,  Aaron,  kept  appearing 
in  the  chronicle,  as  frequently  as  that  of  the 
-real  lawgiver  MOM'S  himself;  and  there  were 
many  verses  about  the  wonder-working  rods  <>!' 
Moses  and  Aaron  that  had  a  .strange  effect  upon 

211 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

the  boy's  ear,  when  he  read  them  aloud,  as  he 
loved  to  do  whenever  he  was  left  alone  for  a 
time.  When  his  aunt  was  in  the  room  his  instinct 
kept  him  from  doing  this,  for  the  mere  mention  of 
the  name  of  Aaron,  he  feared,  might  sadden  his 
aunt  and  provoke  in  her  that  dangerous  vein  of 
reminiscence  that  made  Ivory  so  anxious. 

"It  kind  o'  makes  me  nervous  to  be  named 
1  Rod/  Aunt  Boynton,"  said  the  boy,  looking  up 
from  the  Bible.  "All  the  rods  in  these  Exodus 
chapters  do  such  dreadful  things !  They  become 
serpents,  and  one  of  them  swallows  up  all  the 
others;  and  Moses  smites  the  waters  with  a  rod 
and  they  become  blood,  and  the  people  can't 
drink  the  water  and  the  fish  die!  Then  they 
stretch  a  rod  across  the  streams  and  ponds  and 
bring  a  plague  of  frogs  over  the  land,  with  swarms 
of  flies  and  horrible  insects." 

"That  was  to  show  God's  power  to  Pharaoh, 
and  melt  his  hard  heart  to  obedience  and  rever 
ence,"  explained  Mrs.  Boynton,  who  had  known 
the  Bible  from  cover  to  cover  in  her  youth  and 
could  still  give  chapter  and  verse  for  hundreds  of 
her  favorite  passages. 

"It  took  an  awful  lot  of  melting,  Pharaoh's 
heart ! "  exclaimed  the  boy.  "Pharaoh  must  have 
been  worse  than  Deacon  Baxter!  I  wonder  if 
they  ever  tried  to  make  him  good  by  being  kind 

212 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

to  him!  I  Ve  read  and  read,  but  I  can't  find  they 
used  anything  on  him  but  plagues  and  famines 
and  boils  and  pestilences  and  thunder  and  hail 
and  fire!  —  Have  I  got  a  middle  name,  Aunt 
Boynton,  for  I  don't  like  Rod  very  much?" 

"I  never  heard  that  you  had  a  middle  name; 
you  must  ask  Ivory,"  said  his  aunt  abstractedly. 

"Did  my  father  name  me  Rod,  or  my  mother?' 

"I  don't  really  know;  perhaps  it  was  your 
mother,  but  don't  ask  questions,  please." 

"I  forgot,  Aunt  Boynton!  Yes,  I  think  per 
haps  my  mother  named  me.  Mothers  'most 
always  name  their  babies,  don't  they?  My 
mother  was  n't  like  you;  she  looked  just  like  the 
picture  of  Pocahontas  in  my  History.  She  never 
knew  about  these  Bible  rods,  I  guess." 

"When  you  go  a  little  further  you  will  find 
pleasanter  things  about  rods,"  said  his  aunt, 
knitting,  knit  ting,  intensely, as  washer  habit, and 
talking  as  if  her  mind  \vereathousand  miles  away. 
'You  know  they  were  just  little  branches  of 
trees,  and  it  was  only  God's  power  that  made 
them  wonderful  in  any  way." 

"Oh!  I  thought  they  were  like  the  singing- 
leaeher's  stick  he  keeps  time  with." 

"No;  if  you  look  at  your  Concordance  you'll 
find  it  gives  you  a  chapter  in  Numbers  where 
there's  something  beautiful  about  rods.  I  have 

213 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

forgotten  the  place;  it  has  been  many  years  since 
I  looked  at  it.  Find  it  and  read  it  aloud  to  me." 
The  boy  searched  his  Concordance  and  readily 
found  the  reference  in  the  seventeenth  chapter  of 
Numbers. 

"Stand  near  me  and  read,"  said  Mrs.  Boyn- 
ton.  "I  like  to  hear  the  Bible  read  aloud!" 

Rodman  took  his  Bible  and  read,  slowly  and 
haltingly,  but  with  clearness  and  understanding: 

1.  And  the  Lord  spake  unto  Moses,  saying, 

2.  Speak  unto  the  children  of  Israel,  and  take  of 
every  one  of  them  a  rod  according  to  the  house  of 
their  fathers,  of  all  their  princes  according  to  the 
house  of  their  fathers  twelve  rods:  write  thou  every 
mans  name  upon  his  rod. 

Through  the  boy's  mind  there  darted  the 
flash  of  a  thought,  a  sad  thought.  He  himself 
was  a  Rod  on  whom  no  man's  name  seemed  to 
be  written,  orphan  that  he  was,  with  no  know 
ledge  of  his  parents ! 

Suddenly  he  hesitated,  for  he  had  caught  sight 
of  the  name  of  Aaron  in  the  verse  that  he  was 
about  to  read,  and  did  not  wish  to  pronounce  it 
in  his  aunt's  hearing. 

"This  chapter  is  most  too  hard  for  me  to  read 
out  loud,  Aunt  Boynton,"  he  stammered.  "Can 
I  study  it  by  myself  and  read  it  to  Ivory  first?" 

"Go  on,  go  on,  you  read  very  sweetly;  I  can- 
214 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

not  remember  what  comes  and  I  wish  to  hear 
it." 

The  boy  continued,  but  without  raising  his 
eyes  from  the  Bible. 

3.  And  t/iou  shall  write  Aaron  s  name  upon  the 
rod  of  Levi:  for  one  rod  shall  be  for  the  head  of  the 
house  of  their  fathers. 

4.  And  thou  shall  lay  them  up  in  the  tabernacle 
of  the  congregation  before  the  testimony,  where  I  will 
meet  with  yon. 

5.  And  it  shall  come  to  pass  that  the  man's  rod, 
whom  I  shall  choose,  shall  blossom:  and  I  will  make 
to  cease  from  me  the  murmurings  of  the  children  of 
Israel,  whereby  they  murmur  against  you. 

Rodman  had  read  on,  absorbed  in  the  story 
and  the  picture  it  presented  to  his  imagination. 
He  liked  the  idea  of  all  the  princes  having  a  rod 
according  to  the  house  of  their  fathers;  he  liked 
to  think  of  the  little  branches  being  laid  on  the 
altar  in  the  tabernacle,  and  above  all  he  thought 
of  the  longing  of  each  of  the  princes  to  have  his 
own  rod  chosen  for  the  blossoming. 

6.  And  Moses  spoke  unto  the  children  of  Israel, 
and  every  one  oftfieir  prince*  (jure  him  a  rod  upi> 
for  each    prince   one,   according   to   their  father's 
houses,  even  twelve  rods;  and  the  rod  of  Aaron  was 
among  their  rods. 

Oh!  how  the  boy  hoped  that  Aaron's  branch 
215 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

would  be  the  one  chosen  to  blossom !  He  felt  that 
his  aunt  would  be  pleased,  too;  but  he  read 
on  steadily,  with  eyes  that  glowed  and  breath 
that  came  and  went  in  a  very  palpitation  of 
interest. 

7.  And  Moses  laid  up  the  rods  before  the  Lord 
in  the  tabernacle  of  witness. 

8.  And  it  came  to  pass,  that  on  the  morrow  Moses 
went  into  the  tabernacle  of  ivitness;  and,  behold,  the 
rod  of  Aaron  was  budded  and  brought  forth  buds, 
and  bloomed  blossoms,  and  yielded  almonds. 

It  was  Aaron's  rod,  then,  and  was  an  almond 
branch!  How  beautiful,  for  the  blossoms  would 
have  been  pink;  and  how  the  people  must  have 
marvelled  to  see  the  lovely  blooming  thing  on  the 
dark  altar;  first  budding,  then  blossoming,  then 
bearing  nuts!  And  what  was  the  rod  chosen  for? 
He  hurried  on  to  the  next  verse. 

9.  And  Moses  brought  out  all  the  rods  from  before 
the  Lord  unto  all  the  children  of  Israel:  and  they 
looked,  and  took  every  man  his  rod. 

10.  And    the    Lord    said    unto   Moses,    Bring 
Aaron's  rod  again  before  the  testimony  to  be  kept 
for  a  token  against  the  rebels;  and  thou  shalt  quite 
take  away  their  murmurings  from  me,  that  they  die 
not. 

"Oh!  Aunt  Boynton!"  cried  the  boy,  "I  love 
my  name  after  I  Ve  heard  about  the  almond  rod ! 

216 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Aren't  you  proud  that  it's  Uncle's  name  that 
was  written  on  the  one  that  blossomed?" 

He  turned  swiftly  to  find  that  his  aunt's  knit 
ting  had  slipped  on  the  floor;  her  nerveless  hands 
drooped  by  her  side  as  if  there  were  no  life  in 
them,  and  her  head  had  fallen  against  the  back 
of  her  chair.  The  boy  was  paralyzed  with  fear 
at  the  sight  of  her  closed  eyes  and  the  deathly 
pallor  of  her  face.  He  had  never  seen  her  like 
this  before,  and  Ivory  was  away.  He  flew  for  a 
bottle  of  spirit,  always  kept  in  the  kitchen  cup 
board  for  emergencies,  and  throwing  wood  on  the 
fire  in  passing,  he  swung  the  crane  so  that  the 
tea-kettle  was  over  the  flame.  He  knew  only  t  lie 
humble  remedies  that  he  had  seen  used  here  or 
there  in  illness,  and  tried  them  timidly,  praying 
every  moment  that  he  might  hear  Ivory's  step. 
He  warmed  a  soapstone  in  the  embers,  and  taking 
off  Mrs.  Boynton's  shoes,  put  it  under  her  cold 
feet.  He  chafed  her  hands  and  gently  poured  a 
spoonful  of  brandy  between  her  pale  lips.  Then 
sprinkling  camphor  on  a  handkerchief  he  held 
it  to  her  nostrils  and  to  his  joy  she  stirred  in  her 
chair;  l>efore  many  minutes  her  lids  fluttered,  her 
lips  moved,  and  she  put  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

"Are  you  better,  Aunt  dear?"  Rod  asked  in  a 
very  wavering  and  tearful  voice. 

She  did  not  answer;  she  only  opened  her  eyea 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  looked  at  him.    At  length  she  whispered 
faintly,  "I  want  Ivory;  I  want  my  son." 

"He's  out,  Aunt  dear.  Shall  I  help  you  to  bed 
the  way  Ivory  does?  If  you'll  let  me,  then  I'll 
run  to  the  bridge  'cross  lots,  like  lightning,  and 
bring  him  back." 

She  assented,  and  leaning  heavily  on  his  slender 
shoulder,  walked  feebly  into  her  bedroom  off  the 
living-room.  Rod  was  as  gentle  as  a  mother  and 
he  was  familiar  with  all  the  little  offices  that 
could  be  of  any  comfort;  the  soapstone  warmed 
again  for  her  feet,  the  bringing  of  her  nightgown 
from  the  closet,  and  when  she  was  in  bed,  an 
other  spoonful  of  brandy  in  hot  milk;  then  the 
camphor  by  her  side,  an  extra  homespun  blanket 
over  her,  and  the  door  left  open  so  that  she  could 
see  the  open  fire  that  he  made  into  a  cheerful 
huddle,  contrived  so  that  it  would  not  snap  and 
throw  out  dangerous  sparks  in  his  absence. 

All  the  while  he  was  doing  this  Mrs.  Boynton 
lay  quietly  in  the  bed  talking  to  herself  fitfully, 
in  the  faint  murmuring  tone  that  was  habitual 
to  her.  He  could  distinguish  scarcely  anything, 
only  enough  to  guess  that  her  mind  was  still  on 
the  Bible  story  that  he  was  reading  to  her  when 
she  fainted.  "  The  rod  of  Aaron  was  among  the 
other  rods"  he  heard  her  say;  and,  a  moment  later, 
"Bring  Aaron's  rod  again  before  the  testimony." 

218 


THE  STORY  OF  W.\n STILL  BAXTER 

Was  it  his  uncle's  name  that  had  so  affected 
her,  wondered  the  boy,  almost  sick  with  remorse, 
although  he  had  tried  his  best  to  evade  her  com 
mand  to  read  the  chapter  aloud?  What  would 
Ivory,  his  hero,  his  pattern  and  example,  say? 
It  had  always  been  Rod's  pride  to  carry  his  little 
share  of  every  burden  that  fell  to  Ivory,  to  be 
faithful  and  helpful  in  every  task  given  to  him. 
He  could  walk  through  fire  without  flinching,  he 
thought,  if  Ivory  told  him  to,  and  he  only  prayed 
1  ha  I  he  might  not  be  held  responsible  for  this  new 
calamity. 

"I  want  Ivory!"  came  in  a  feeble  voice  from 
the  bedroom. 

"Does  your  side  ache  worse?"  Rod  asked,  tip 
toeing  to  the  door. 

"No,  I  am  quite  free  from  pain." 

"Would  you  be  afraid  to  stay  alone  just  for  a 
while  if  I  lock  both  doors  and  run  to  find  Ivory 
and  bring  him  hark?" 

"No,  I  will  sleep,"  she  whispered,  closing  her 
eyes.  "Bring  him  quickly  before  I  forget  what  I 
want  to  say  to  him." 

Hod  sped  down  the  lane  and  over  the  fields  to 
the  brick  store  where  Ivory  usually  bought   In 
ternet*    His  cousin  was  not  there,  l>ut  one  of 
the  men  came  out   and  oll'ered   to  take  his  hoi -« 
and  drive  over  the  bridge  to  see  if  he  were  at  one 

219 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

of  the  neighbors'  on  that  side  of  the  river.  Not  a 
word  did  Rod  breathe  of  his  aunt's  illness;  he 
simply  said  that  she  was  lonesome  for  Ivory,  and 
so  he  came  to  find  him.  In  five  minutes  they  saw 
the  Boynton  horse  hitched  to  a  tree  by  the  road 
side,  and  in  a  trice  Rod  called  him  and,  thanking 
Mr.  Bixby,  got  into  Ivory's  wagon  to  wait  for 
him.  He  tried  his  best  to  explain  the  situation 
as  they  drove  along,  but  finally  concluded  by 
saying:  "Aunt  really  made  me  read  the  chap 
ter  to  her,  Ivory.  I  tried  not  to  when  I  saw 
Uncle's  name  in  most  every  verse,  but  I  could  n't 
help  it." 

"Of  course  you  could  n't!  Now  you  jump  out 
and  hitch  the  horse  while  I  run  in  and  see  that 
nothing  has  happened  while  she 's  been  left  alone. 
Perhaps  you'll  have  to  go  for  Dr.  Perry." 

Ivory  went  in  with  fear  and  trembling,  for 
there  was  no  sound  save  the  ticking  of  the  tall 
clock.  The  fire  burned  low  upon  the  hearth,  and 
the  door  was  open  into  his  mother's  room.  He 
lifted  a  candle  that  Rod  had  left  ready  on  the 
table  and  stole  softly  to  her  bedside.  She  was 
sleeping  like  a  child,  but  exhaustion  showed  itself 
in  every  line  of  her  face.  He  felt  her  hands  and 
feet  and  found  the  soapstone  in  the  bed;  saw  the 
brandy  bottle  and  the  remains  of  a  cup  of  milk 
on  the  light-stand;  noted  the  handkerchief,  still 

220 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

strong  of  camphor  on  the  counterpane,  and  the 
blanket  spread  carefully  over  her  knees,  and  then 
turned  approvingly  to  meet  Rod  stealing  into 
the  room  on  tiptoe,  his  eyes  big  with  fear. 

"We  won't  wake  her,  Rod.  I '11  watch  a  while, 
then  sleep  on  the  sitting-room  lounge." 

"Let  me  watch,  Ivory!  I'd  feel  better  if 
you'd  let  me,  honest  I  would!" 

The  boy's  face  was  drawn  with  anxiety.  Ivory's 
attention  was  attracted  by  the  wistful  eyes  and 
the  beauty  of  the  forehead  under  the  dark  hair. 
He  seemed  something  more  than  the  child  of 
yesterday — a  care  and  responsibility  and  expense, 
for  all  his  loving  obedience;  he  seemed  all  at  once 
different  to-night;  older,  more  dependable,  more 
trustworthy;  in  fact,  a  positive  comfort  and  help 
in  time  of  trouble. 

"I  did  the  best  I  knew  how;  was  anything 
wrong?  "  asked  the  boy,  as  Ivory  stood  regarding 
him  with  a  friendly  smile. 

"  Nothing  wrong,  Rod !  Dr.  Perry  could  n't  ha  vr 
done  any  better  with  what  you  had  on  hand.  I 
don't  know  how  I  should  get  along  without 
you,  boy!"  Here  Ivory  patted  Rod's  shoulder. 
14  You 're  not  a  child  any  longer,  Rod;  you're  a 
man  and  a  brother,  that's  what  you  arc;  and  to 
prove  it  I  '11  take  the  first  watch  and  call  you  up 
at  one  o'clock  to  take  the  second,  so  that  I  can 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

be  ready  for  my  school  work  to-morrow!  How 
does  that  suit  you?" 

"Tip-top!"  said  the  boy,  flushing  with  pride. 
"I'll  lie  down  with  my  clothes  on;  it's  only  nine 
o'clock  and  I'll  get  four  hours'  sleep;  that's  a  lot 
more  than  Napoleon  used  to  have!" 

He  carried  the  Bible  upstairs  and  just  before  he 
blew  out  his  candle  he  looked  again  at  the  chapter 
in  Numbers,  thinking  he  would  show  it  to  Ivory 
privately  next  day.  Again  the  story  enchanted 
him,  and  again,  like  a  child,  he  put  his  own  name 
and  his  living  self  among  the  rods  in  the  taber 
nacle. 

"Ivory  would  be  the  prince  of  our  house,"  he 
thought.  "Oh!  how  I'd  like  to  be  Ivory's  rod 
and  have  it  be  the  one  that  was  chosen  to  blos 
som  and  keep  the  rebels  from  murmuring!" 


XXI 

LOIS   BURIES   HER    DEAD 

THE  replies  that  Ivory  had  received  from  his  let 
ters  of  inquiry  concerning  his  father's  movements 
>ince  leaving  Maine,  and  his  possible  death  in  the 
West,  left  no  reasonable  room  for  doubt.  Traces 
of  Aaron  Boynton  in  New  Hampshire,  in  Massa 
chusetts,  in  New  York,  and  finally  in  Ohio,  all 
pointed  in  one  direction,  and  although  there  were 
.traps  and  discrepancies  in  the  account  of  his  do 
ings,  |  he  fact  of  his  death  seemed  to  be  established 
by  two  apparently  reliable  witnesses. 

That  he  was  not  unaccompanied  in  his  earliest 
migrations  seemed  clear,  but  the  woman  men- 
t  ioned  as  his  wife  disappeared  suddenly  from  the 
rep<  >rt  s,  and  the  story  of  his  last  days  was  the  story 
of  a  broken-down,  melancholy,  unfriended  man, 
dependent  for  the  last  offices  on  strangers.  He 
left  no  message^  and  no  paper-,  said  Ivory's  cor- 
n^pondent,  and  never  made  mention  of  any 
family  connections  whatsoever.  He  had  no  prop 
erty  and  no  means  of  defraying  the  expenses  of 
his  illness  after  he  was  stricken  with  the  fever. 
No  letters  were  found  among  his  poor  effects  and 
no  article  that  could  prove  his  identity,  unle>s  it 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

were  a  small  gold  locket,  which  bore  no  initials  or 
marks  of  any  kind,  but  which  contained  two  locks 
of  fair  and  brown  hair,  intertwined.  The  tiny 
trinket  was  enclosed  in  the  letter,  as  of  no  value, 
unless  some  one  recognized  it  as  a  keepsake. 

Ivory  read  the  correspondence  with  a  heavy 
heart,  inasmuch  as  it  corroborated  all  his  worst 
fears.  He  had  sometimes  secretly  hoped  that 
his  father  might  return  and  explain  the  reason  of 
his  silence;  or  in  lieu  of  that,  that  there  might 
come  to  light  the  story  of  a  pilgrimage,  fanatical, 
perhaps,  but  innocent  of  evil  intention,  one  that 
could  be  related  to  his  wife  and  his  former  friends, 
and  then  buried  forever  with  the  death  that  had 
ended  it. 

Neither  of  these  hopes  could  now  ever  be  real 
ized,  nor  his  father's  memory  made  other  than  a 
cause  for  endless  regret,  sorrow,  and  shame.  His 
father,  who  had  begun  life  so  handsomely,  with 
rare  gifts  of  mind  and  personality,  a  wife  of 
unusual  beauty  and  intelligence,  and  while  still 
young  in  years,  a  considerable  success  in  his 
chosen  profession.  His  poor  father!  What  could 
have  been  the  reasons  for  so  complete  a  down 
fall? 

Ivory  asked  Dr.  Perry's  advice  about  showing 
one  or  two  of  the  briefer  letters  and  the  locket 
to  his  mother.  After  her  fainting  fit  and  the 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

exhaustion  that  followed  it,  Ivory  begged  her  to 
see  the  old  doctor,  but  without  avail.  Finally, 
after  days  of  pleading  he  took  her  hands  in  his  and 
said :  "  I  do  everything  a  mortal  man  can  do  to  be 
a  good  son  to  you,  mother;  won't  you  do  this  to 
please  me,  and  trust  that  I  know  what  is  best?" 
\Yhereupon  she  gave  a  trembling  assent,  as  if  she 
were  agreeing  to  something  indescribably  pain 
ful,  and  indeed  this  sight  of  a  former  friend 
seemed  to  frighten  her  strangely. 

After  Dr.  Perry  had  talked  with  her  for  a  half- 
hour  and  examined  her  sufficiently  to  make  at 
least  a  reasonable  guess  as  to  her  mental  and 
physical  condition,  he  advised  Ivory  to  break  the 
news  of  her  husband's  death  to  her. 

"If  you  can  get  her  to  comprehend  it,"  he  said, 
"it  is  bound  to  be  a  relief  from  this  terrible  sus 
pense." 

"Will  there  be  any  danger  of  making  her 
worse?  Might  n't  the  shock  cause  too  violent 
emotion?"  a>ked  Ivory  anxiously. 

"I  don't  think  she  is  any  longer  capable  of 
violent  emotion/'  (he  doctor  answered.  "Her 
mind  is  certainly  clearer  than  it  was  three  yean 
ago,  but  her  body  is  nearly  burned  away  by  the 
mental  conflict.  There  is  scarcely  any  part  of  her 
but  is  weary;  weary  unto  death,  poor  soul!  One 
cannot  look  at  her  patient,  lovely  face  without 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

longing  to  lift  some  part  of  her  burden.  Make  a 
trial,  Ivory;  it's  a  justifiable  experiment  and  I 
think  it  will  succeed.  I  must  not  come  any 
oftener  myself  than  is  absolutely  necessary;  she 
seemed  afraid  of  me." 

The  experiment  did  succeed.  Lois  Boynton 
listened  breathlessly,  with  parted  lips,  and  with 
apparent  comprehension,  to  the  story  Ivory  told 
her.  Over  and  over  again  he  told  her  gently  the 
story  of  her  husband's  death,  trying  to  make  it 
sink  into  her  mind  clearly,  so  that  there  should 
be  no  consequent  bewilderment.  She  was  calm 
and  silent,  though  her  face  showed  that  she  was 
deeply  moved.  She  broke  down  only  when  Ivory 
showed  her  the  locket. 

"I  gave  it  to  my  husband  when  you  were  born, 
my  son ! "  she  sobbed.  "  After  all,  it  seems  no  sur 
prise  to  me  that  your  father  is  dead.  He  said  he 
would  come  back  when  the  Mayflowers  bloomed, 
and  when  I  saw  the  autumn  leaves  I  knew  that 
six  months  must  have  gone  and  he  would  never 
stay  away  from  us  for  six  months  without  writing. 
That  is  the  reason  I  have  seldom  watched  for 
him  these  last  weeks.  I  must  have  known  that 
it  was  no  use!" 

She  rose  from  her  rocking-chair  and  moved 
feebly  towards  her  bedroom.  "Can  you  spare 
me  the  rest  of  the  day,  Ivory?"  she  faltered,  as 

* 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

she  leaned  on  her  son  and  made  her  slow  progress 
from  the  kitchen.  "I  must  bury  the  body  of  my 
<jrief  and  I  want  to  be  alone  at  first.  ...  If  only 
I  could  see  Waitstill !  We  have  both  thought  this 
was  coming:  she  has  a  woman's  instinct  .  .  .  she 
i<  younger  and  stronger  than  I  am,  and  she  said 
it  was  braver  not  to  watch  and  pine  and  fret  as  I 
have  done  .  .  .  but  to  have  faith  in  God  that  He 
would  send  me  a  sign  when  He  was  ready.  .  .  . 
She  said  if  I  could  manage  to  be  braver  you  would 
he  happier  too.  .  .  ."  Here  she  sank  on  to  her 
hed  exhausted,  but  still  kept  up  her  murmur 
ing  faintly  and  feebly,  between  long  intervals  of 
silence. 

"Do  you  think  Waitstill  could  come  to-mor 
row?"  she  asked.  "I  am  so  much  braver  when 
she  is  here  with  me.  .  .  .  After  supper  I  will  put 
away  your  father's  cup  and  plate  once  and  for  all. 
Ivory,  and  your  eyes  need  never  fill  with  tears 
again,  as  they  have,  sometimes,  when  yon  have 
seen  me  watching.  .  .  .  You  need  n't  worry  about 
me;  I  am  remembering  better  these  days,  and  the 
bells  that  ring  in  my  ears  are  not  so  loud.  If  only 
the  pain  in  my  side  were  less  and  I  were  not  I  • 
pressed  forhreath,  I  should  he  cpn'le  strong  and 

could  see  everything  <-leaHy  at  hist.  .  .  .  Then-  i\ 

Something dae  that  remains  to  he  remembered.  I 
have  almost  caught  it  once  and  it  must  come  to 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

me  again  before  long.  .  .  .  Put  the  locket  under 
my  pillow,  Ivory ;  close  the  door,  please,  and  leave 
me  to  myself.  ...  I  can't  make  it  quite  clear, 
my  feeling  about  it,  but  it  seems  just  as  if  I 
were  going  to  bury  your  father  and  I  want  to  be 
alone." 


XXII 

HARVEST-TIME 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  annual  pageant  of  autumn  was 
being  unfolded  day  by  day  in  all  its  accustomed 
splendor,  and  the  feast  and  riot  of  color,  the  almost 
unimaginable  glory,  was  the  common  property 
of  the  whole  countryside,  rich  and  poor,  to  be 
shared  alike  if  perchance  all  eyes  were  equally 
alive  to  the  wonder  and  the  beauty. 

Scarlet  days  and  days  of  gold  followed  fast  one 
upon  the  other;  Saco  Water  now  flowing  between 
quiet  woodlands  that  were  turning  red  and  rus 
set  and  brown,  and  now  plunging  through  rocky 
banks  all  blazing  with  crimson. 

Waitstill  Baxter  went  as  often  as  she  could  to 
the  Boy n ton  farm,  though  never  when  Ivory 
was  at  home,  and  the  affection  between  tin- 
younger  and  the  older  woman  irrew  closer  and 
closer,  so  that  it  almost  broke  Waitstill's  heart 
to  leave  the  fragile  creature,  when  her  presence 
>eemed  to  bring  such  complete  peace  and  joy. 

"No  one  ever  clung  to  me  so  before,"  she  of  I  en 
thought  as  >he  was  hurrying  across  the  fields 
after  one  of  her  half-hour  visit*  "But  the  end 
must  come  before  long.  Ivory  does  not  K  ali/e 

229 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

it  yet,  nor  Rodman,  but  it  seems  as  if  she  could 
never  survive  the  long  winter.  Thanksgiving 
Day  is  drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  and  how  little 
I  am  able  to  do  for  a  single  creature,  to  prove  to 
God  that  I  am  grateful  for  my  existence !  I  could, 
if  only  I  were  free,  make  such  a  merry  day  for 
Patty  and  Mark  and  their  young  friends.  Oh! 
what  joy  if  father  were  a  man  who  would  let  me 
set  a  bountiful  table  in  our  great  kitchen;  would 
sit  at  the  head  and  say  grace,  and  we  could  bow 
our  heads  over  the  cloth,  a  united  family!  Or,  if 
I  had  done  my  duty  in  my  home  and  could  go  to 
that  other  where  I  am  so  needed  —  go  with  my 
father's  blessing!  If  only  I  could  live  in  that  sad 
little  house  and  brighten  it!  I  would  trim  the 
rooms  with  evergreen  and  creeping- Jenny;  I 
would  put  scarlet  alder  berries  and  white  ever 
lastings  and  blue  fringed  gentians  in  the  vases! 
I  would  put  the  last  bright  autumn  leaves  near 
Mrs.  Boynton's  bed  and  set  out  a  tray  with  a 
damask  napkin  and  the  best  of  my  cooking;  then 
I  would  go  out  to  the  back  door  where  the  wood 
bine  hangs  like  a  red  waterfall  and  blow  the 
dinner-horn  for  my  men  down  in  the  harvest- 
field!  All  the  woman  in  me  is  wasting,  wasting! 
Oh !  my  dear,  dear  man,  how  I  long  for  him !  Oh ! 
my  own  dear  man,  my  helpmate,  shall  I  ever  live 
by  his  side?  I  love  him,  I  want  him,  I  need  him! 

230 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

And  my  dear  little  unmothered,  unfathered  boy, 
how  happy  I  could  make  him!  How  I  should 
love  to  cook  and  sew  for  them  all  and  wrap  them 
in  comfort!  How  I  should  love  to  smooth  my  dear 
mother's  last  days, -- for  she  is  my  mother,  in 
spirit,  in  affection,  in  desire,  and  in  being  Ivory's ! " 

\VaitstilFs  longing,  her  discouragement,  her 
helplessness,  overcame  her  wholly,  and  she  flung 
herself  down  under  a  tree  in  the  pasture  in  a  very 
passion  of  sobbing,  a  luxury  in  which  she  could 
seldom  afford  to  indulge  herself.  The  luxury  was 
short-lived,  for  in  five  minutes  she  heard  Rod 
man's  voice,  and  heard  him  running  to  meet  her 
as  he  often  did  when  she  came  to  their  house  or 
went  away  from  it,  dogging  her  footsteps  or 
Patty's  whenever  or  wherever  he  could  waylay 
them. 

"Why,  my  dear,  dear  \Vaity,  did  you  tumble 
and  hurt  yourself?"  the  boy  cried. 

"Yes,  dreadfully,  but  I'm  better  now,  so  walk 
along  with  me  and  tell  me  the  news,  Rod." 

"There  is  n't  much  news.  Ivory  told  you  I'd 
left  school  and  am  studying  at  home?  He  helps 
me  evening!  and  I'm  'way  ahead  of  the  class." 

"No,  Ivory  did  n't  tell  me.  I  have  n't  seen 
him  lately." 

M  I  >aid  if  the  big  brother  kept  school,  the  little 
brother  ought  to  keep  hou>e,"  laughed  the  boy. 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"He  says  I  can  hire  out  as  a  cook  pretty  soon! 
Aunt  Boynton  's  'most  always  up  to  get  dinner 
and  supper,  but  I  can  make  lots  of  things  now,  - 
things  that  Aunt  Boynton  can  eat,  too." 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  and  Ivory  cook 
ing  for  yourselves! "  exclaimed  Waitstill,  the  tears 
starting  again  from  her  eyes.  "I  must  come 
over  the  next  time  when  you  are  at  home,  Rod, 
and  I  can  help  you  make  something  nice  for 
supper." 

"We  get  along  pretty  well,"  said  Rodman 
contentedly.  "I  love  book-learning  like  Ivory 
and  I  'm  going  to  be  a  schoolmaster  or  a  preacher 
when  Ivory's  a  lawyer.  Do  you  think  Patty 'd 
like  a  schoolmaster  or  a  preacher  best,  and  do  you 
think  I'd  be  too  young  to  marry  her  by  and  by, 
if  she  would  wait  for  me?" 

"I  did  n't  think  you  had  any  idea  of  marrying 
Patty,"  laughed  Waitstill  through  her  tears.  "Is 
this  something  new?" 

"It's  not  exactly  new,"  said  Rod,  jumping 
along  like  a  squirrel  in  the  path.  "Nobody  could 
look  at  Patty  and  not  think  about  marrying  her. 
I'd  love  to  marry  you,  too,  but  you're  too  big 
and  grand  for  a  boy.  Of  course,  I  'm  not  going  to 
ask  Patty  yet.  Ivory  said  once  you  should  never 
ask  a  girl  until  you  can  keep  her  like  a  queen; 
then  after  a  minute  he  said:  'Well,  maybe  not 

232 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

quite  like  a  queen,  Rod,  for  that  would  mean 
longer  than  a  man  could  wait.  Shall  we  say 
until  he  could  keep  her  like  the  dearest  lady  in 
the  land?'  That  's  the  way  he  said  it. — You  do 
cry  dreadfully  easy  to-day,  Waity;  I'm  sure  you 
harked  your  leg  or  skinned  your  knee  when  you 
fell  down. -- Don't  you  think  the  *  dearest  lady 
in  the  land'  is  a  nice-sounding  sentence?" 

"I  do,  indeed!"  cried  Waitstill  to  herself  as 
she  turned  the  words  over  and  over  trying  to  feed 
her  hungry  heart  with  them. 

"I  love  to  hear  Ivory  talk;  it's  like  the  stories 
in  the  books.  We  have  our  best  times  in  the  barn, 
for  I'm  helping  with  the  milking,  now.  Our  yel 
low  cow's  name  is  Molly  and  the  red  eow  used  to 
be  Dolly,  but  we  changed  her  to  Golly,  'cause 
she's  so  troublesome.  Molly's  an  easy  cow  to 
milk  and  I  can  get  almost  all  there  is,  though 
Ivory  comes  after  me  and  takes  the  strippings. 
Golly  swishes  her  tail  and  kicks  the  minute  she 
hear-  us  coming;  then  she  stands  st  ifl'-lei^ed  and 
grits  her  teeth  and  holds  on  to  her  milk  JnircL  and 
Ivory  has  to  pat  and  smooth  and  coax  her  every 
Mii^le  time.  Ivory  says  she's  -ot  a  kind  of  an  at 
tachment  inside  of  her  that  >he  .shuts  down  when 
he  begins  to  milk." 

k'\Ve  had  a  cross  old  cow  like  that,  once," 
said  Waitstill  absently,  loving  to  hear  the  boy's 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

chatter  and  the  eternal  quotations  from  his  be 
loved  hero. 

"We  have  great  fun  cooking,  too,"  continued 
Rod.  "When  Aunt  Boynton  was  first  sick  she 
stayed  in  bed  more,  and  Ivory  and  I  had  n't  got 
used  to  things.  One  morning  we  bound  up  each 
other's  burns.  Ivory  had  three  fingers  and  I  two, 
done  up  in  buttery  rags  to  take  the  fire  out. 
Ivory  called  us  '  Soldiers  dressing  their  Wounds 
after  the  Battle.'  Sausages  spatter  dreadfully, 
don't  they?  And  when  you  turn  a  pancake  it 
flops  on  top  of  the  stove.  Can  you  flop  one 
straight,  Waity?" 

;<  Yes,  I  can,  straight  as  a  die;  that's  what  girls 
are  made  for.  Now  run  along  home  to  your  big 
brother,  and  do  put  on  some  warmer  clothes  under 
your  coat;  the  weather's  getting  colder." 

"Aunt  Boynton  has  n't  patched  our  thick  ones 
yet,  but  she  will  soon,  and  if  she  does  n't,  Ivory '11 
take  this  Saturday  evening  and  do  them  himself; 
he  said  so." 

"He  shall  not!"  cried  Waitstill  passionately. 
"  It  is  not  seemly  for  Ivory  to  sew  and  mend,  and 
I  will  not  allow  it.  You  shall  bring  me  those  things 
that  need  patching  without  telling  any  one,  do 
you  hear,  and  I  will  meet  you  on  the  edge  of 
the  pasture  Saturday  afternoon  and  give  them 
back  to  you.  You  are  not  to  speak  of  it  to  any 

234 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

one,  you  understand,  or  perhaps  I  shall  pound  you 
to  a  jelly.  You  'd  make  a  sweet  rosy  jelly  to  eat 
with  turkey  for  Thanksgiving  dinner,  you  dear, 
comforting  little  boy!" 

Rodman  ran  towards  home  and  Waits! ill 
hurried  along,  scarcely  noticing  the  beauties  of  the 
woods  and  fields  and  waysides,  all  glowing  masses 
of  goldenrod  and  purple  frost  flowers.  The  stone 
walls  were  covered  with  wild-grape  and  feathery 
clematis  vines.  Everywhere  in  sight  the  corn 
fields  lay  yellow  in  the  afternoon  sun  and  ox 
carts  heavily  loaded  with  full  golden  ears  were 
going  home  to  the  barns  to  be  ready  for  husking. 

A  sudden  breeze  among  the  orchard  boughs  as 
she  neared  the  house  was  followed  by  a  shower 
of  russets,  and  everywhere  the  red  Baldwins 
gleamed  on  the  apple-tree  boughs,  while  the  wind- 
falls  were  being  gathered  and  taken  to  the  cider 
mills.  There  was  a  grove  of  maples  on  the  top 
of  Town-House  Hill  and  the  Baxters'  dooryard 
was  a  l>la/eof  brilliant  color.  To  see  Patty  stand 
ing  under  a  little  rock  maple,  her  brown  linsey- 
woolsey  in  tone  with  the  lamlseape.  and  the  hood 
of  her  hrOWH  Cape  pulled  OY<T  her  bright  head,  waN 
a  welcome  for  anybody.  She  looked  flushed  and 
excited  as  she  ran  up  to  her  sister  and  said, 
"  \\aity,  darling,  you've  been  crying!  Has  father 
been  scolding  you?" 

235 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"No,  dear,  but  my  heart  is  aching  to-day  so 
that  I  can  scarcely  bear  it.  A  wave  of  discourage 
ment  came  over  me  as  I  was  walking  through  the 
woods,  and  I  gave  up  to  it  a  bit.  I  remembered 
how  soon  it  will  be  Thanksgiving  Day,  and  I'd 
so  like  to  make  it  happier  for  you  and  a  few  others 
that  I  love." 

Patty  could  have  given  a  shrewd  guess  as  to 
the  chief  cause  of  the  heartache,  but  she  forebore 
to  ask  any  questions.  "Cheer  up,  Waity,"  she 
cried.  "  You  never  can  tell ;  we  may  have  a  thank 
ful  Thanksgiving,  after  all!  Who  knows  what 
may  happen?  I'm  'strung  up'  this  afternoon  and 
in  a  fighting  mood.  I  've  felt  like  a  new  piece  of 
snappy  white  elastic  all  day;  it's  the  air,  just 
like  wine,  so  cool  and  stinging  and  full  of  cour 
age!  Oh,  yes,  we  won't  give  up  hope  yet  awhile, 
Waity,  not  until  we're  snowed  in!" 

"Put  your  arms  round  me  and  give  me  a  good 
hug,  Patty !  Love  me  hard,  hard,  for,  oh !  I  need  it 
badly  just  now!" 

And  the  two  girls  clung  together  for  a  moment 
and  then  went  into  the  house  with  hands  close- 
locked  and  a  kind  of  sad,  desperate  courage  in 
their  young  hearts.  What  would  either  of  them 
have  done,  each  of  them  thought,  had  she  been 
forced  to  endure  alone  the  life  that  went  on  day 
after  day  in  Deacon  Baxter's  dreary  house? 


XXIII 


AUNT  ABBY'S  WINDOW 


MRS.  ABEL  DAY  had  come  to  spend  the  afternoon 
with  Aunt  Abby  Cole  and  they  were  seated  at  the 
two  sitting-room  windows,  sweeping  the  land 
scape  with  eagle  eyes  in  the  intervals  of  making 
patchwork. 

"The  foliage  has  been  a  little  mite  too  rich  this 
season/'  remarked  Aunt  Abby.  "I  b'lieve  I'm 
glad  to  see  it  thinnin'  out  some,  so  't  we  can 
have  some  kind  of  an  idee  of  what 's  goin'  on  in 
the  village." 

"There's  plenty  goin'  on,"  Mrs.  Day  answered 
unctuously;  "some  of  it  aboveboard  an'  sonic 
underneath  it." 

"An*  that's  jest  where  it's  aggravatin'  to  have 
the  leaves  so  thick  and  the  trees  so  high  between 
you  and  other  folks'  houses.  Tivrx  ,-nv  good  for 
shade,  it's  true,  but  there's  a  limit  to  all  things. 
There  was  a  lime  when  I  could  >ee  'hout  every 
thing  that  went  on  up  to  Baxters',  and  down  to 
Hart's  shop,  and,  by  goin'  up  attic,  consid'able 
many  things  that  happened  on  ihr  hrid^e.  Hart 
vow>  Iir  never  planted  I  hat  plum  tree  at  the  back 
door  of  his  shop;  uya  the  ehildren  must  have 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

hove  out  plum  stones  when  they  was  settin'  on 
the  steps  and  the  tree  come  up  of  its  own  accord. 
He  says  he  did  n't  take  any  notice  of  it  till  it  got 
quite  a  start  and  then  't  was  such  a  healthy  young 
bush  he  could  n't  bear  to  root  it  out.  I  tell  him 
it's  kind  o'  queer  it  should  happen  to  come  up 
jest  where  it  spoils  my  view  of  his  premises.  Mm 
folks  are  so  exasperatin'  that  sometimes  I  wish 
there  was  somebody  different  for  us  to  marry, 
but  there  ain't,  —  so  there  we  be!" 

"They  are  an  awful  trial,"  admitted  Mrs. 
Day.  "  Abel  never  sympathizes  with  my  head 
aches.  I  told  him  a-Sunday  I  did  n't  believe  he  'd 
mind  if  I  died  the  next  day,  an*  all  he  said  was : 
'Why  don't  you  try  it  an'  see,  Lyddy? '  He 
thinks  that 's  humorous." 

"  I  know;  that 's  the  way  Bartholomew  tnlks: 
I  guess  they  all  do.  You  can  see  the  bridge  bet 
ter  'n  I  can,  Lyddy;  has  Mark  Wilson  drove 
over  sence  you've  been  settin'  there?  He's  like 
one  o'  them  ostriches  that  hides  their  heads  in 
the  sand  when  the  bird-catchers  are  comin'  along, 
thinkin'  'cause  they  can't  see  anything  they'll 
never  be  seen!  He  knows  folks  would  never 
tell  tales  to  Deacon  Baxter,  whatever  the  girls 
done;  they  hate  him  too  bad.  Lawyer  Wilson 
lives  so  far  away,  he  can't  keep  any  watch  o' 
Mark,  an'  Mis'  Wilson's  so  cityfied  an'  purse- 

238 


THE  STORY  OF  AY  \n  STILL  BAXTER 

proud  nobody  ever  goes  to  her  with  any  news, 
bad  or  good ;  so  them  that 's  the  most  concerned 
is  as  blind  as  bats.  Mark's  consid'able  stid- 
dier  'n  he  used  to  be,  but  you  need  n't  tell  me 
he  has  any  notion  of  bringin'  one  o'  that  Baxter 
tribe  into  his  family.  He's  only  amusin'  him 
self." 

"Patty '11  be  Mrs.  Wilson  or  nothin',"  was 
Mrs.  Day's  response.  "Both  o'  them  girls  is  silk 
purses  an'  you  can't  make  sows'  ears  of  'em.  We 
ain't  neither  of  us  hardly  fair  to  Patty,  an'  I 
s'pose  it 's  because  she  did  n't  set  any  proper  value 
on  Cephas." 

"Oh,  she's  good  enough  for  Mark,  I  guess, 
though  I  ain't  so  sure  of  his  intentions  as  you  be. 
She's  nobody's  fool,  Patty  ain't,  I  allow  that, 
though  she  did  treat  Cephas  like  the  dirt  in  the 
road.  I'm  thankful  he's  come  to  his  senses 
an'  found  out  the  diff'rence  between  dross  an' 
gold." 

"It's  very  good  of  you  to  put  it  that  way, 
Abby,"  Mrs.  Day  responded  gratefully,  for  it  \\a> 
Phoebe,  her  own  offspring,  who  was  alluded  to  as 
the  most  precious  of  metals.  "I  suppose  we'd 
better  have  the  publishing  notice  put  up  in  the 
frame  before  Sunday?  There'll  be  a  great  crowd 
out  that  day  and  at  Thanksgiving  service  the 
next  Thursday  too!" 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Cephas  says  he  don't  care  how  soon  folks  hears 
the  news,  now  all 's  settled,"  said  his  mother.  "  I 
guess  he's  kind  of  anxious  that  the  village  should 
know  jest  how  little  truth  there  is  in  the  gossip 
'bout  him  bein*  all  upset  over  Patience  Baxter. 
He  said  they  took  consid'able  notice  of  him  an' 
Phoebe  settin'  together  at  the  Harvest  Festival 
last  evenin'.  He  thought  the  Baxter  girls  would 
be  there  for  certain,  but  I  s'pose  Old  Foxy 
would  n't  let  'em  go  up  to  the  Mills  in  the  evenin', 
nor  spend  a  quarter  on  their  tickets." 

"Mark  could  have  invited  Patty  an'  paid  for 
her  ticket,  I  should  think;  or  passed  her  in  free, 
for  that  matter,  when  the  Wilsons  got  up  the  en 
tertainment;  but,  of  course,  the  Deacon  never 
allows  his  girls  to  go  anywheres  with  men- 
folks." 

"Not  in  public;  so  they  meet  'em  side  o'  the 
river  or  round  the  corner  of  Bart's  shop,  or  any 
where  they  can,  when  the  Deacon's  back 's  turned. 
If  you  tied  a  handkerchief  over  Waitstill's  eyes 
she  could  find  her  way  blindfold  to  Ivory  Boyn- 
ton's  house,  but  she's  good  as  gold,  Waitstill 
is;  she'll  stay  where  her  duty  calls  her,  every 
time !  If  any  misfortune  or  scandal  should  come 
near  them  two  girls,  the  Deacon  will  have  no 
body  but  himself  to  thank  for  it,  that's  one  sure 
thing!" 

240 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Young  folks  can't  be  young  but  once,"  sighed 
Mrs.  Day.  "  I  thought  we  had  as  handsome  a  turn 
out  at  the  entertainment  last  evenin'  as  any  vil 
lage  on  the  Saco  River  could  'a'  furnished;  an' 
my  Phoebe  an'  your  Cephas,  if  I  do  say  so  as 
should  n't,  was  about  the  best-dressed  an'  best- 
appearin'  couple  there  was  present.  Also,  I  guess 
likely,  they  're  startin'  out  with  as  good  prospects 
as  any  bride  an'  groom  that's  walked  up  the 
middle  aisle  o'  the  meetin'-house  for  many  a  year. 
.  .  .  How'd  you  like  (hat  Boston  singer  that  the 
W  ilsons  brought  here,  Abby? —  Wait  a  minute,  is 
Cephas,  or  the  Deacon,  tendin'  store  this  after 
noon?" 

"The  Deacon;  Cephas  is  paint  in'  up  to  the 
Mills." 

"Well,  Mark  Wilson's  horse  an'  buggy  is 
meanderin'  slowly  down  Aunt  Betty-Jack's  hill, 
an'  Mark  is  studyin'  the  road  as  if  he  was  lookin' 
for  a  four-leafed  clover." 

"He'll  hitch  at  the  tavern,  or  the  Edgewood 
store,  an'  wait  his  chance  to  get  a  word  with 
Patience,"  said  Aunt  Abby.  "He  knows  when 
she  takes  milk  to  the  Mori-ills',  or  butter  to  the 
parsonage;  also  when  she  eats  an'  drinks  an' 
winks  her  eye  an'  ketches  her  breath  an'  lifts  her 
foot.  Now  he's  disappeared  ;m'  we'll  wait.  .  .  . 
Why,  as  to  that  Boston  >in^er,  —  an'  by  the  wav, 

241 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

they  say  Ellen  Wilson's  goin'  to  take  lessons  of 
her  this  winter,  —  she  kind  o'  bewildered  me, 
Lyddy !  Of  course,  I  ain't  never  been  to  any  cities, 
so  I  don't  feel  altogether  free  to  criticise;  but  what 
did  you  think  of  her,  when  she  run  up  so  high 
there,  one  time?  I  don't  know  how  high  she  went, 
but  I  guess  there  wa'n't  no  higher  to  go!" 

"It  made  me  kind  o'  nervous,"  allowed  Mrs. 
Day. 

"Nervous!  Bart'  an'  I  broke  out  in  a  cold 
sweat!  He  said  she  could  n't  hold  a  candle  to 
Waitstill  Baxter.  But  it's  that  little  fly-away 
Wilson  girl  that'll  get  the  lessons,  an'  Waitstill 
will  have  to  use  her  voice  callin'  the  Deacon  home 
to  dinner.  Things  ain't  divided  any  too  well  in 
this  world,  Lyddy." 

"Waitstill's  got  the  voice,  but  she  lacks  the 
trainin'.  The  Boston  singer  knows  her  business, 
I'll  say  that  for  her,"  said  Mrs.  Day. 

"She's  got  good  stayin'  power,"  agreed  Aunt 
Abby.  "Did  you  notice  how  she  held  on  to  that 
high  note  when  she  'd  clumb  where  she  wanted  to 
git?  She's  got  breath  enough  to  run  a  gristmill, 
that  girl  has!  And  how'd  she  come  down,  when 
she  got  good  and  ready  to  start?  WTiy,  she  zig 
zagged  an'  saw-toothed  the  whole  way!  It  kind 
o'  made  my  flesh  creep!" 

"I  guess  part  o'  the  trouble's  with  us  country 
242 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

folks,"  Mrs.  Day  responded,  "for  folks  said  she 
sung  runs  and  trills  better  'n  any  woman  up  to 
Boston." 

"Runs  an*  trills,"  ejaculated  Abby  scornfully. 
"I  was  talkin'  'bout  singin',  not  runnin'.  My 
niece  Ella  up  to  Parsonfield  has  taken  three  terms 
on  the  pianner  an*  I  Ve  heerd  her  practise.  Scales 
has  got  to  be  done,  no  doubt,  but  they'd  ought 
to  be  done  to  home,  where  they  belong;  a  concert 
ain't  no  place  for  'em.  .  .  .  There,  what  did  I  tell 
yer?  Patience  Baxter's  crossin'  the  bridge  with 
a  pail  in  her  hand.  She's  got  that  everlastin' 
veller-brown,  linsey-woolsey  on,  an'  a  white 
'cloud'  wrapped  around  her  head,  with  con'sid- 
'able  red  hair  showin'  as  usual.  You  can  always 
see  her  fur's  you  can  a  sunrise!  And  there  goes 
Rod  Boy  n  ton,  chasin'  behind  as  usual.  Those 
Baxter  irirU  make  a  perfect  fool  o'  that  boy,  but 
I  don't  s'pose  Lois  Boynton's  got  wit  enough  to 
make  much  fuss  over  the  poor  little  creeter!" 

Mark  Wilson  could  certainly  see  Patty  Baxter 
as  far  as  lie  could  a  sunrise,  although  he  was  not 
intimately  acquainted  with  that  natural  phe 
nomenon.  He  took  a  circuitous  route  from  his 
watch-tower,  and,  knowing  well  the  point  from 
which  there  could  be  no  espionage  from  Deacon 
Baxter's  store  windows,  joined  Patty  in  the  road, 
took  the  pail  from  her  hand,  and  walked  up  the 

243 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

hill  beside  her.  Of  course,  the  village  could  see 
them,  but,  as  Aunt  Abby  had  intimated,  there 
was  n't  a  man,  woman,  or  child  on  either  side  of 
the  river  who  would  n't  have  taken  the  part  of 
the  Baxter  girls  against  their  father. 


XXIV 

PHGEBE    TRIUMPHS 

MEANTIME  Feeble  Phoebe  Day  was  driving  her 
father's  horse  up  to  the  Mills  to  bring  Cephas 
Cole  home.  It  was  a  thrilling  moment,  a  sort  of 
outward  and  visible  sign  of  an  inward  and  spirit 
ual  tie,  for  their  banns  were  to  be  published  the 
next  day,  so  what  did  it  matter  if  the  commu 
nity,  nay,  if  the  whole  universe,  speculated  as  to 
why  she  was  drawing  her  beloved  back  from  his 
daily  toil? 

It  had  been  an  eventful  autumn  for  Cephas. 
After  a  third  request  for  the  hand  of  Miss  Pa 
tience  Baxter,  and  a  ivt'nsal  of  even  more  than 
common  decision  and  energy,  Cephas  turned 
about  face  and  employed  the  entire  month  of 
September  in  a  determined  assault  upon  the 
affections  of  Miss  Lucy  Morrill,  but  with  no 
better  avail.  His  heart  was  not  ardently  involved 
in  this  second  wooing,  but  winter  was  approach- 
in--,  he  had  moved  his  mother  out  of  her  sum 
mer  quarters  hack  to  the  main  hoiisr,  and  he 
doggedly  began  papering  the  ell  and  furnishing 
the  kitchen  without  disclosing  to  his  respected 

^245 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

parents  the  identity  of  the  lady  for  whose  com 
fort  he  was  so  hospitably  preparing. 

Cephas's  belief  in  the  holy  state  of  matrimony 
as  being  the  only  one  proper  for  a  man,  really 
ought  to  have  commended  him  to  the  opposite 
(and  ungrateful)  sex  more  than  it  did,  and  Lucy 
Morrill  held  as  respectful  an  opinion  of  the  insti 
tution  and  its  manifold  advantages  as  Cephas 
himself,  but  she  was  in  a  very  unsettled  frame  of 
mind  and  not  at  all  susceptible  to  wooing.  She 
had  a  strong  preference  for  Philip  Perry,  and  held 
an  opinion,  not  altogether  unfounded  in  human 
experience,  that  in  course  of  time,  when  quite 
deserted  by  Patty  Baxter,  his  heart  might  possibly 
be  caught  on  the  rebound.  It  was  only  a  chance, 
but  Lucy  would  almost  have  preferred  remaining 
unmarried,  even  to  the  withering  age  of  twenty- 
five,  rather  than  not  be  at  liberty  to  accept  Philip 
Perry  in  case  she  should  be  asked. 

Cephas  therefore,  by  the  middle  of  October, 
could  be  picturesquely  and  alliteratively  de 
scribed  as  being  raw  from  repealed  rejections.  His 
bruised  heart  and  his  despised  ell  literally  cried 
out  for  the  appreciation  so  lon<r  and  Mindly  with 
held.  Now  all  at  once  Phoebe  disclosed  a  second 
virtue;  her  first  and  only  one,  hit  hcrlo,  in  the  eyes 
of  Cephas,  having  been  an  ability  to  get  on  with 
his  mother,  a  feat  in  which  many  had  made  an 

246 


THE  STORY  OF  AY.MTSTIU,  BAXTER 

effort  and  few  indeed  had  succeeded.  Phoebe, 
it  seems,  had  always  secretly  admired,  respected, 
and  loved  Cephas  Cole !  Never  since  her  pale  and 
somewhat  glassy  blue  eye  had  opened  on  life  had 
she  beheld  a  being  she  could  so  adore  if  encour 
aged  in  the  attitude. 

The  moment  this  unusual  and  unexpected 
poultice  was  really  applied  to  Cephas's  wounds, 
they  began  to  heal.  In  the  course  of  a  month  the 
most  ordinary  observer  could  have  perceived  a 
physical  change  in  him.  He  cringed  no  more,  but 
held  his  head  higher;  his  back  straightened;  his 
voice  developed  a  gruff,  assertive  note,  like  that 
of  a  stern  Roman  father;  he  let  his  moustache 
grow,  and  sometimes,  in  his  most  reckless  mo 
ments,  twiddled  the  end  of  it.  Finally  he  swag 
gered;  but  that  was  only  after  Plm -he  had  ac 
cepted  him  and  told  him  that  if  a  girl  traversed 
the  entire  length  of  the  Saco  River  (which  she 
presumed  to  be  the  longest  in  the  world,  the  Am 
azon  not  being  familiar  to  her),  she  could  not 
hope  to  find  his  ecjual  as  a  husband. 

And  then  congratulations  began  to  pour  in! 
Was  ever  marriage  so  fortuitous!  The  Cole>' 
farm  joined  that  of  the  Days  and  the  union  be 
tween  the  two  only  children  would  cement  the 
friendship  between  the  families.  The  fact  that 
Uncle  Bart  was  a  joiner,  Cephas  a  painter,  and 

M7 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Abel  Day  a  mason  and  bricklayer  made  the  alli 
ance  almost  providential  in  its  business  oppor 
tunities.  Phoebe's  Massachusetts  aunt  sent  a 
complete  outfit  of  gilt-edged  china,  a  clock,  and  a 
mahogany  chamber  set.  Aunt  Abby  relinquished 
to  the  young  couple  a  bedroom  and  a  spare  cham 
ber  in  the  "main  part,"  while  the  Days  supplied 
live-geese  feathers  and  table  and  bed-linen  with 
positive  prodigality.  Aunt  Abby  trod  the  air  like 
one  inspired.  "  Balmy  "  is  the  only  adjective  that 
could  describe  her. 

"If  only  I  could  'a'  looked  ahead,"  smiled 
Uncle  Bart  quizzically  to  himself,  "I'd  'a'  had 
thirteen  sons  and  daughters  an'  married  off  one 
of  'em  every  year.  That  would  'a'  made  Abby's 
good  temper  kind  o'  permanent." 

Cephas  was  content,  too.  There  was  a  good 
deal  in  being  settled  and  having  "  the  whole  dog- 
goned  business  "  off  your  hands.  Phoebe  looked  a 
very  different  creature  to  him  in  these  latter 
days.  Her  eyes  were  just  as  pale,  of  course,  but 
they  were  brighter,  and  they  radiated  love  for 
him,  an  expression  in  the  female  eye  that  he  had 
thus  far  been  singularly  unfortunate  in  securing. 
She  still  held  her  mouth  slightly  open,  but  Cephas 
thought  that  it  might  be  permissible,  perhaps 
after  three  months  of  wedded  bliss,  to  request  her 
to  be  more  careful  in  closing  it.  He  believed, 

248 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

too,  that  she  would  make  an  effort  to  do  so  ju>l 
to  please  him;  whereas  a  man's  life  or  property 
would  not  be  safe  for  a  single  instant  if  he  asked 
Miss  Patience  Baxter  to  close  her  mouth,  not  if 
he  had  been  married  to  her  for  thirty  times  three 
months! 

Cephas  did  not  think  of  Patty  any  longer  with 
bitterness,  in  these  days,  being  of  the  opinion 
that  she  was  punished  enough  in  observing  his 
own  growing  popularity  and  prosperity. 

"If  she  should  see  that  mahogany  chamber  set 
going  into  the  ell,  I  guess  she'd  be  glad  enough  to 
change  her  tune!"  thought  Cephas,  exultingly; 
and  then  there  suddenly  shot  through  his  mind 
the  passing  fancy-  "I  wonder  if  she  would!" 
He  promptly  banished  the  infamous  suggestion 
however,  reinforcing  his  virtue  with  the  reflection 
that  the  oh  amber  set  was  Phoebe's,  anyway,  and 
the  marriage  day  appointed,  and  the  invitations 
given  out,  and  the  wedding-cake  being  baked,  a 
loaf  at  a  time,  by  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Day. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Patty  would  have  had  no 
eyes  for  Pli<rl>e\  magnificent  maim-any,  even 
had  the  cart  that  earried  it  passed  her  on  t  lie  hill 
where  she  and  Mark  Wilson  were  walking.  Her 
promise  to  marry  him  was  a  few  weeks  old  now, 
and  his  arm  eneireled  her  .slender  \\aist  under  the 
brown  homespun  cape.  That  in  itself  was  a  new 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

sensation  and  gave  her  the  delicious  sense  of  be 
longing  to  somebody  who  valued  her  highly,  and 
assured  her  of  his  sentiments  clearly  and  fre 
quently,  both  by  word  and  deed.  Life,  dull  gray 
life,  was  going  to  change  its  hue  for  her  presently, 
and  not  long  after,  she  hoped,  for  Waitstill,  too! 
It  needed  only  a  brighter,  a  more  dauntless  cour 
age  ;  a  little  faith  that  nettles,  when  firmly  grasped, 
hurt  the  hand  less,  and  a  fairer  future  would  dawn 
for  both  of  them.  The  Deacon  was  a  sharper  net 
tle  than  she  had  ever  meddled  with  before,  but  in 
these  days,  when  the  actual  contact  had  not  yet 
occurred,  she  felt  sure  of  herself  and  longed  for  the 
moment  when  her  pluck  should  be  tested  and 
proved. 

The  "publishing"  of  Cephas  and  his  third 
choice,  their  dull  walk  up  the  aisle  of  the  meeting 
house  before  an  admiring  throng,  on  the  Sun 
day  when  Phoebe  would  "appear  bride,"  all  this 
seemed  very  tame  as  compared  with  the  dreams 
of  this  ardent  and  adventurous  pair  of  lovers  who 
had  gone  about  for  days  harboring  secrets  greater 
and  more  daring,  they  thought,  than  had  ever 
been  breathed  before  within  the  hearing  of  Saco 
Water. 


XXV 

LOVE'S   YOUNG   DREAM 

IT  was  not  an  afternoon  for  day-dreams,  for  there 
was  a  chill  in  the  air  and  a  gray  sky.  ( )nly  a  week 
before  the  hills  along  the  river  might  have  been 
the  walls  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  shining  like  red 
gold;  now  the  glory  had  departed  and  it  was  a 
naked  world,  with  empty  nests  hanging  to  boughs 
that  not  long  ago  had  been  green  with  summer. 
The  old  elm  by  the  tavern,  that  had  been  wrapped 
in  a  bright  t  rail  of  scarlet  woodbine,  was  stripped 
almost  bare  of  its  autumn  beauty.  Here  and  there 
a  maple  showed  a  remnant  of  crimson,  and  a  stal 
wart  oak  had  some  rags  of  russet  still  clinging  to 
its  gaunt  boughs.  The  hickory  trees  flung  out  a 
few  yellow  flags  from  the  ends  of  their  t\\  i-<.  but 
the  forests  wore  a  tattered  and  dishevelled  look, 
and  the  withered  leaves  that  lay  in  dried  heaps 
upon  the  frozen  ground,  driven  hither  and  thither 
by  every  gust  of  the  north  wind,  gave  the  un 
thinking  heart  a  throb  of  foreboding.  Yet  the 
glad  summer  labor  of  those  same  leaves  was  fin- 
i-hed  according  to  the  law  that  governed  them, 
and  the  fruit  was  I  hrirsand  the  seed  for  thcroining 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

year.  No  breeze  had  been  strong  enough  to  shake 
them  from  the  tree  till  they  were  ready  to  forsake 
it.  Now  the}T  had  severed  the  bond  that  had  held 
them  so  tightly  and  fluttered  down  to  give  the 
earth  all  their  season's  earnings.  On  every  hillside, 
in  every  valley  and  glen,  the  leaves  that  had  made 
the  summer  landscape  beautiful,  lay  contentedly: 

"Where  the  rain  might  rain  upon  them, 
Where  the  sun  might  shine  upon  them, 
Where  the  wind  might  sigh  upon  them, 
And  the  snow  might  die  upon  them.'* 

Brown,  withered,  dead,  buried  in  snow  they 
might  be,  yet  they  were  ministering  to  all  the 
leaves  of  the  next  spring-time,  bequeathing  to 
them  in  turn  the  beauty  that  had  been  theirs; 
the  leafy  canopies  for  countless  song  birds,  the 
grateful  shade  for  man  and  beast. 

Young  love  thought  little  of  Nature's  miracles, 
and  hearts  that  beat  high  and  fast  were  warm 
enough  to  forget  the  bleak  wind  and  gathering 
clouds.  If  there  were  naked  trees,  were  there  not 
full  barrels  of  apples  in  every  cellar?  If  there  was 
nothing  but  stubble  in  the  frozen  fields,  why, 
there  was  plenty  of  wheat  and  corn  at  the  mill 
all  ready  for  grinding.  The  cold  air  made  one 
long  for  a  cheery  home  and  fireside,  the  crackle 
of  a  hearth-log,  the  bubbling  of  a  steaming  kettle; 
and  Patty  and  Mark  clung  together  as  they 

252 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

walked  along,  making  bright  images  of  a  life 
together,  snug,  warm,  and  happy. 

Patty  was  a  capricious  creature,  but  all  her 
changes  were  sudden  and  endearing  ones,  capti 
vating  those  who  loved  her  more  than  a  mono 
tonous  and  unchanging  virtue.  Any  little  shower, 
with  Patty,  always  ended  with  a  rainbow  that 
made  the  landscape  more  enchanting  than  before. 
Of  late  her  little  coquetries  and  petulances  had 
disappeared  as  if  by  magic.  She  had  been  melted 
somehow  from  irresponsible  girlhood  into  woman 
hood,  and  that,  too,  by  the  ardent  affection  of  a 
very  ordinary  young  man  who  had  no  great  gift 
save  that  of  loving  Patty  greatly.  The  love  had 
s< Tved  its  purpose,  in  another  way,  too,  for  under 
its  influence  Mark's  own  manhood  had  broadened 
and  deepened.  He  longed  to  bind  Patty  to  him 
for  good  and  all,  to  capture  the  bright  bird  whose 
fluttering  wings  and  burnished  plumage  so  cap 
tured  his  Bensefl  and  stirred  his  heart,  but  his 
longings  had  changed  with  the  quality  of  his 
love  and  he  glowed  at  the  thought  of  delivering 
the  girl  from  her  dreary  surroundings  and  -ivim: 
her  the  tendeni"-s.  ilir  COM  and  comfort,  the 
innocent  gayety,  that  her  nature  craved. 

"You  won't  fail  me,  Patty  darlin-?"  lie  was 
saying  at  this  moment.  "Now  that  our  plans 
are  finally  made,  with  never  a  weak  point  auy- 

258 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

where  as  far  as  I  can  see,  my  heart  is  so  set  upon 
carrying  them  out  that  every  hour  of  waiting 
seems  an  age!" 

"No,  I  won't  fail,  Mark;  but  I  never  know 
the  day  that  father  will  go  to  town  until  the 
night  before.  I  can  always  hear  him  making  his 
preparations  in  the  barn  and  the  shed,  and  or 
dering  Waitstill  here  and  there.  He  is  as  excited 
as  if  he  was  going  to  Boston  instead  of  Mill- 
town." 

:'The  night  before  will  do.  I  will  watch  the 
house  every  evening  till  you  hang  a  white  signal 
from  your  window." 

"It  wron't  be  white,"  said  Patty,  who  would  be 
mischievous  on  her  deathbed;  "my  Sunday-go- 
to-meetin'  petticoat  is  too  grand,  and  everything 
else  that  we  have  is  yellow." 

"I  shall  see  it,  whatever  color  it  is,  you  can  be 
sure  of  that!"  said  Mark  gallantly.  "Then  it's 
decided  that  next  morning  I  '11  wait  at  the  tav 
ern  from  sunrise,  and  whenever  your  father  and 
Waitstill  have  driven  up  Saco  Hill,  I  '11  come  and 
pick  you  up  and  we'll  be  off  like  a  streak  of  light 
ning  across  the  hills  to  New  Hampshire.  How 
lucky  that  Riverboro  is  only  thirty  miles  from 
the  state  line ! — It  looks  like  snow,  and  how  I  wish 
it  would  be  something  more  than  a  flurry;  a  regu 
lar  whizzing,  whirring  storm  that  would  pack  the 

254 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

roads  and  let  us  slip  over  them  with  our  sleigh- 
hells  ringing!" 

"I  should  like  that,  for  they  would  be  our  only 
wedding-bells.  Oh!  Mark!  What  if  Waitstill 
should  n't  go,  after  all:  though  I  heard  father 
tell  her  that  he  needed  her  to  buy  things  for  the 
store,  and  that  they  would  n't  be  back  till  after 
nightfall.  Just  to  think  of  being  married  without 
Waitstill!" 

"You  can  do  without  Waitstill  on  this  one  oc 
casion,  better  than  you  can  without  me,"  laughed 
Mark,  pinching  Patty's  cheek.  "I've  given  the 
town  clerk  due  notice  and  I  have  a  friend  to  meet 
me  at  his  office.  He  is  going  to  lend  me  his  horse 
for  the  drive  home,  and  we  shall  change  back  the 
next  week.  That  will  give  us  a  fresh  horse  each 
way,  and  we'll  fly  like  the  wind,  snow  or  no  snow. 
When  we  come  down  Guide  Board  Hill  that  night, 
Patty,  we  shall  be  man  and  wife;  is  n't  that  won 
derful?" 

"We  shall  be  man  and  wife  in  Xew  Hampshire, 
but  not  in  Maine,  you  say,"  Patty  reminded  him 
dolefully.  "It  does  seem  dreadful  that  we  can't 
be  married  in  our  own  state,  and  have  to  go  dau- 
irlinu'  aixnil  with  this  secret  on  our  minds,  day 
and  nielli;  but  it  can't  be  helped!  You'll  try 
not  to  even  think  of  me  as  your  wife  till  we  go  to 
Portsmouth  to  live,  won't  you?" 

' 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

:<You're  asking  too  much  when  you  say  I'm 
not  to  think  of  you  as  my  wife,  for  I  shall  think  of 
nothing  else,  but  I  've given  you  my  solemn  prom 
ise,"  said  Mark  stoutly,  "and  I'll  keep  it  as  sure 
as  I  live.  We  '11  be  legally  married  by  the  laws  of 
New  Hampshire,  but  we  won't  think  of  it  as  a 
marriage  till  I  tell  your  father  and  mine,  and  we 
drive  away  once  more  together.  That  time  it  will 
be  in  the  sight  of  everybody,  with  our  heads  in 
the  air.  I've  got  the  little  house  in  Portsmouth 
all  ready,  Patty:  it's  small,  but  it's  in  a  nice  part 
of  the  town.  Portsmouth  is  a  pretty  place,  but 
it'll  be  a  great  deal  prettier  when  it  has  Mrs. 
Mark  Wilson  living  in  it.  We  can  be  married  over 
again  in  Maine,  afterwards,  if  your  heart  is  set 
upon  it.  I  'm  willing  to  marry  you  in  every  state 
of  the  Union,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"I  think  you've  been  so  kind  and  good  and 
thoughtful,  Mark  dear,"  said  Patty,  more  fondly 
and  meltingly  than  she  had  ever  spoken  to  him 
before,  "and  so  clever,  too!  I  do  respect  you  for 
getting  that  good  position  in  Portsmouth  and 
being  able  to  set  up  for  yourself  at  your  age. 
I  should  n't  wonder  a  bit  if  you  were  a  judge 
some  day,  and  then  what  a  proud  girl  I  shall  be!" 

Patty's  praise  was  bestowed  none  too  fre 
quently,  and  it  sounded  very  sweet  in  the  young 
man's  ears. 

256 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"I  do  believe  I  can  get  on,  with  you  to  help 
me,  Patty,"  he  said,  pressing  her  arm  more  closely 
to  his  side,  and  looking  down  ardently  into  her 
radiant  face.  "You're  a  great  deal  cleverer  than 
I  am,  but  I  have  a  faculty  for  the  business  of  the 
la\v,  so  my  father  says,  and  a  faculty  for  money- 
making,  too.  And  even  if  we  have  to  begin  in  a 
small  way,  my  salary  will  be  a  certainty,  and  we'll 
work  up  together.  I  can  see  you  in  a  yellow  satin 
dn-ss,  si  ill'  enough  to  stand  alone!" 

"It  must  be  white  satin,  if  you  please,  not 
yellow!  After  having  used  a  hundred  and  ten 
yards  of  shop-worn  yellow  calico  on  myself  within 
two  years,  I  never  want  to  wear  that  color  again! 
If  only  I  could  come  to  you  better  provided,"  she 
>ii:lied,  with  the  suggestion  of  tears  in  her  voice. 
"If  I'd  been  a  common  sen  ant  I  could  have  saved 
something  from  my  wages  to  be  married  on.  I 
have  n't  even  got  anything  to  be  married  in  I" 

"I  '11  get  you  anything  you  want  in  Portland 
to-morrow." 

"Certainly  not;  I'd  rather  be  married  in  rags 
than  have  you  spend  your  money  upon  me  be 
forehand!" 

"  Remember  to  have  a  box  of  your  belongings 
packed  and  slipped  under  the  shed  someuhere. 
You  can't  be  certain  what  \  <  >ur  fa  I  her  will  say  or 
do  when  the  time  comes  for  telling  him,  and  1 

857 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

want  you  to  be  ready  to  leave  on  a  moment's 
notice." 

"I  will;  I'll  do  everything  you  say,  Mark,  but 
are  you  sure  that  we  have  thought  of  every  other 
way?  I  do  so  hate  being  underhanded." 

"  Every  other  way!  I  am  more  than  willing  to 
ask  your  father,  but  we  know  he  would  treat  me 
with  contempt,  for  he  can't  bear  the  sight  of  me ! 
He  would  probably  lock  you  up  and  feed  you  on 
bread  and  water.  That  being  the  state  of  things, 
how  can  I  tell  our  plans  to  my  own  father?  He 
never  would  look  with  favor  on  my  running  away 
with  you ;  and  mother  is,  by  nature,  set  upon  doing 
things  handsomely  and  in  proper  order.  Father 
would  say  our  elopement  would  be  putting  us  both 
wrong  before  the  community,  and  he  'd  advise  me 
to  wait.  '  You  are  both  young '  —  I  can  hear  him 
announcing  his  convictions  now,  as  clearly  as  if 
he  was  standing  here  in  the  road  — '  You  are 
both  young  and  you  can  well  afford  to  wait  until 
something  turns  up.'  As  if  we  had  n't  waited 
and  waited  from  all  eternity!" 

"  Yes,  we  have  been  engaged  to  be  married  for 
at  least  five  weeks,"  said  Patty,  with  an  upward 
glance  peculiar  to  her  own  sparkling  face,  —  one 
that  always  intoxicated  Mark.  "  I  am  seventeen 
and  a  half;  your  father  could  n't  expect  a  con 
firmed  old  maid  like  me  to  waste  any  more  time. 

258 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

But  I  never  would  do  this  —  this  —  sudden,  unre- 
spc'( -table  thing,  if  there  was  any  other  way. 
Everything  depends  on  my  keeping  it  secret  from 
Waitstill,  but  she  does  n't  suspect  anything  yet. 
She  thinks  of  me  as  nothing  but  a  child  still.  Do 
you  suppose  Ellen  would  go  with  us,  just  to  give 
me  a  little  comfort?" 

"She  might,"  said  Mark,  after  reflecting  a 
moment.  "She  is  very  devoted  to  you,  and  per 
haps  she  could  keep  a  secret;  she  never  has,  but 
there's  always  a  first  time.  You  can't  go  on  add 
ing  to  the  party,  though,  as  if  it  was  a  candy-pull ! 
\\ V  cannot  take  Lucy  Morrill  and  Phoebe  Day 
and  Cephas  Cole,  because  it  would  be  too  hard  on 
the  horse;  and  besides,  I  might  #et  embarrassed  at 
the  town  clerk's  office  and  marry  the  wrong  girl; 
or  you  might  swop  me  off  for  Cephas!  But  I'll 
tell  Ellen  if  you  say  so;  she's  got  plenty  of  grit." 

"Don't  joke  about  it,  Mark,  don't.  I  should  n't 
miss  Wait still  so  much  if  I  had  Ellen,  and  how 
happy  I  shall  be  if  she  approves  of  me  for  a  sister 
ami  thinks  your  mother  and  lather  will  like  me 
in  time." 

"There  never  was  a  creature  born  into  the 
world  that  \\ould  n't  love  you,  Patty !" 

"I  don't  know;  look  at  Aunt  Abby  Cole!" 
>aid  Patty  pensively.  "Well,  it  does  not  seem 
as  if  a  marriage  that  is  n't  good  in  Iliverboro  was 

258 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

really  decent!  How  tiresome  of  Maine  to  want 
all  those  days  of  public  notice;  people  must  so 
often  want  to  get  married  in  a  minute.  If  I  think 
about  anything  too  long  I  always  get  out  of  the 
notion." 

"I  know  you  do;  that's  what  I'm  afraid  of!" 
—  and  Mark's  voice  showed  decided  nervousness. 
"You  won't  get  out  of  the  notion  of  marrying  me, 
will  you,  Patty  dear?" 

"Marrying  you  is  more  than  a  'notion,'  Mark," 
said  Patty  soberly.  "  I  'm  only  a  little  past  seven 
teen,  but  I  'm  far  older  because  of  the  difficulties 
I  've  had.  I  don't  wonder  you  speak  of  my  '  no 
tions.'  I  was  as  light  as  a  feather  in  all  my  deal 
ings  with  you  at  first." 

"So  was  I  with  you!  I  hadn't  grown  up, 
Patty." 

"Then  I  came  to  know  you  better  and  see  how 
you  sympathized  with  Waitstill's  troubles  and 
mine.  I  could  n't  love  anybody,  I  could  n't  marry 
anybody,  who  did  n't  feel  that  things  at  our  house 
can't  go  on  as  they  are !  Father  has  had  a  good  long 
trial !  Three  wives  and  two  daughters  have  done 
their  best  to  live  with  him,  and  failed.  I  am  not 
willing  to  die  for  him,  as  my  mother  did,  nor  have 
Waitstill  killed  if  I  can  help  it.  Sometimes  he  is 
like  a  man  who  has  lost  his  senses  and  sometimes 
he  is  only  grim  and  quiet  and  cruel.  If  he  takes 

260 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

our  marriage  without  a  terrible  scene,  Mark,  per 
haps  it  will  encourage  Waitstill  to  break  her 
chains  as  I  have  mine." 

"There's  sure  to  be  an  awful  row,"  Mark  said, 
as  one  who  had  forecasted  all  the  probabilities. 
"It  \vould  n't  make  any  difference  if  you  married 
the  Prince  of  Wales;  nothing  would  suit  your 
father  but  selecting  the  man  and  making  all  the 
arrangements;  and  then  he  would  never  choose 
any  one  who  would  n't  tend  the  store  and  work 
on  the  farm  for  him  without  wages." 

"Waitstill  will  never  run  awray;  she  is  n't  like 
me.  She  will  sit  and  sit  there,  slaving  and  suffer 
ing,  till  doomsday;  for  the  one  that  loves  her  is  n't 
free  like  you!" 

:<  You  mean  Ivory  Boynton?  I  believe  he  wor 
ships  the  ground  she  walks  on.  I  like  him  better 
than  I  used,  and  I  understand  him  better.  Oh! 
but  I  'in  a  lucky  young  dog  to  have  a  kind,  liberal 
father  and  a  bit  of  money  put  by  to  do  with  as  I 
choose.  If  I  had  n't,  I'd  be  eating  my  heart  out 
like  Ivory!" 

"No,  you  would  n't  eat  your  heart  out;  you'd 
always  get  what  you  wanted  somehow,  and  you 
wouldn't  wait  for  it  cither;  ami  I 'in  just  the  same. 
I'm  not  built  for  giving  up,  and  enduring,  and 
sacriiiein.ir.  I'm  naturally  just  a  tuft  of  thistle 
down,  Mark;  but  living  beside  Waitsiill  all  these 

261 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

years  I  Ve  grown  ashamed  to  be  so  light,  blowing 
about  hither  and  thither.  I  kept  looking  at  her 
and  borrowing  some  of  her  strength,  just  enough 
to  make  me  worthy  to  be  her  sister.  Waitstill  is 
like  a  bit  of  Plymouth  Rock,  only  it's  a  lovely 
bit  on  the  land  side,  with  earth  in  the  crevices, 
and  flowers  blooming  all  over  it  and  hiding  the 
granite.  Oh!  if  only  she  will  forgive  us,  Mark, 
I  won't  mind  what  father  says  or  does." 

"She  will  forgive  us,  Patty  darling;  don't  fret, 
and  cry,  and  make  your  pretty  eyes  all  red.  I  '11 
do  nothing  in  all  this  to  make  either  of  you  girls 
ashamed  of  me,  and  I  '11  keep  your  father  and 
mine  ever  before  my  mind  to  prevent  my  being 
foolish  or  reckless;  for,  you  know,  Patty,  I'm 
heels  over  head  in  love  with  you,  and  it 's  only  for 
your  sake  I  'm  taking  all  these  pains  and  agreeing 
to  do  without  my  own  wedded  wife  for  weeks  to 
come!" 

"Does  the  town  clerk,  or  does  the  justice  of  the 
peace  give  a  wedding-ring,  just  like  the  minister?  " 
Patty  asked.  "I  should  n't  feel  married  without 
a  ring." 

"The  ring  is  all  ready,  and  has  '  M.  W.  to  P.  B. ' 
engraved  in  it,  with  the  place  for  the  date  wait  inu; 
and  here  is  the  engagement  ring  if  you'll  wear  it 
when  you  're  alone,  Patty.  My  mother  gave  it  to 
me  when  she  thought  there  would  be  something 

262 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

between  Annabel  Franklin  and  me.  The  moment 
I  looked  at  it — you  see  it's  a  topaz  stone  —  and 
noticed  the  yellow  fire  in  it,  I  said  to  myself :  'It 
is  like  no  one  but  Patty  Baxter,  and  if  she  won't 
wear  it,  no  other  girl  shall!'  It 's  the  color  of  the 
tip  ends  of  your  curls  and  it's  just  like  the  light 
in  your  eyes  when  you're  making  fun!" 

"It's  heavenly!"  cried  Patty.  "It  looks  as  if 
it  had  been  made  of  the  yellow  autumn  leaves, 
and  oh!  how  I  love  the  sparkle  of  it!  But  never 
will  I  take  your  mother's  ring  or  wear  it,  Mark, 
till  I  've  proved  myself  her  loving,  dutiful  daugh 
ter.  I'll  do  the  one  wrong  thing  of  running  away 
with  you  and  concealing  our  marriage,  but  not 
another  if  I  can  help  it." 

"Very  well,"  sighed  Mark,  replacing  the  ring 
in  his  pocket  with  rather  a  crestfallen  air.  "But 
the  first  thing  you  know  you'll  be  too  good  for 
me,  Patty!  You  used  to  be  a  regular  will-o'-the- 
wisp,  all  nonsense  and  fun,  forever  laughing  and 
teasing,  so  that  a  fellow  could  never  be  sure  of 
you  for  two  minutes  together." 

"It's  all  there  underneath,"  said  Patty,  put 
ting  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  turning  her  wistful 
face  up  to  his.  "It  will  come  again;  the  girl  in  me 
is  n't  dead;  she  is  n't  even  asleep;  but  she's  all 
sobered  down.  She  can't  laugh  just  now,  she  can 
only  smile;  and  the  tears  are  waiting  underneath, 

£63 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

ready  to  spring  out  if  any  one  says  the  wrong 
word.  This  Patty  is  frightened  and  anxious  and 
her  heart  beats  too  fast  from  morning  till  night. 
She  has  n't  any  mother,  and  she  cannot  say  a 
word  to  her  dear  sister,  and  she's  going  away 
to  be  married  to  you,  that's  almost  a  stranger, 
and  she  is  n't  eighteen,  and  does  n't  know  what 's 
coming  to  her,  nor  what  it  means  to  be  married. 
She  dreads  her  father's  anger,  and  she  cannot 
rest  till  she  knows  whether  your  family  willlove 
her  and  take  her  in;  and,  oh!  she's  a  miserable, 
worried  girl,  not  a  bit  like  the  old  Patty." 

Mark  held  her  close  and  smoothed  the  curls 
under  the  loose  brown  hood.  "Don't  you  fret, 
Patty  darling!  I'm  not  the  boy  I  was  last  week. 
Every  word  you  say  makes  me  more  of  a  man.  At 
first  I  would  have  run  away  just  for  the  joke; 
anything  to  get  you  away  from  the  other  fellows 
and  prove  I  was  the  best  man,  but  now  I  'm  so 
bered  down, too.  I'll  do  nothing  rash;  I'll  be  as 
staid  as  the  judge  you  want  me  to  be  twenty  years 
later.  You've  made  me  over,  Patty,  and  if  my 
love  for  you  was  n't  the  right  sort  at  first,  it  is 
now.  I  wish  the  road  to  New  Hampshire  was  full 
of  lions  and  I  could  fight  my  way  through  them 
just  to  show  you  how  strong  I  feel!" 

"There'll  be  lions  enough,"  smiled  Patty 
through  her  tears, "  though  they  won't  have  manes 

264 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

and  tails;  but  I  can  imagine  how  father  will  roar, 
and  how  my  courage  will  ooze  out  of  the  heels  of 
my  boots!" 

"  Just  let  me  catch  the  Deacon  roaring  at  my 
wife!"  exclaimed  Mark  with  a  swelling  chest. 
"Now,  run  along  home,  Patty  dear,  for  I  don't 
want  you  scolded  on  my  account.  There's  sure 
to  be  only  a  day  or  two  of  waiting  now,  and  I 
shall  soon  see  the  signal  waving  from  your  win 
dow.  I'll  sound  Ellen  and  see  if  she's  brave 
enough  to  be  one  of  the  eloping  party.  Good 
night!  Good-night!  Oh!  how  I  hope  our  going 
away  will  be  to-morrow,  my  dearest,  dearest 
Patty!" 


WINTER 


XXVI 

A    WEDDING-RING 

THE  snow  had  come.  It  had  begun  to  fall  softly 
and  steadily  at  the  beginning  of  the  week,  and 
now  for  days  it  had  covered  the  ground  deeper 
and  deeper,  drifting  about  the  little  red  brick 
house  on  the  hilltop,  banking  up  against  the  barn, 
and  shrouding  the  sheds  and  the  smaller  buildings. 
There  had  been  two  cold,  still  nights;  the  win 
dows  were  covered  with  silvery  landscapes  whose 
delicate  foliage  made  every  pane  of  glass  a  leafy 
bower,  while  a  dazzling  crust  bediamonded  the 
hillsides,  so  that  no  eye  could  rest  on  them  long 
without  becoming  snow-blinded. 

Town-House  Hill  was  not  as  well  travelled  as 
many  others,  and  Deacon  Baxter  had  often  to 
break  his  own  road  down  to  the  store,  without 
waiting  for  the  help  of  the  village  snow-plough 
to  make  things  easier  for  him.  Many  a  path  had 
Waitstill  broken  in  her  time,  and  it  was  by  no 
means  one  of  her  most  distasteful  tasks  —  that 
of  shovelling  into  the  drifts  of  hmprd-up  white 
ness,  tossing  them  to  one  side  or  the  other,  ami 
cutting  a  narrow,  clean-edged  track  that  would 
pack  down  into  the  hardness  of  marble. 

268 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

There  were  many  "chores"  to  be  done  these 
cold  mornings  before  any  household  could  draw 
a  breath  of  comfort.  The  Baxters  kept  but  one 
cow  in  winter,  killed  the  pig,  —  not  to  eat,  but 
to  sell,  —  and  reduced  the  flock  of  hens  and  tur 
keys;  but  Waitstill  was  always  as  busy  in  the  barn 
as  in  her  own  proper  domain.  Her  heart  yearned 
for  all  the  dumb  creatures  about  the  place,  inter 
vening  between  them  and  her  father's  scanty 
care;  and  when  the  thermometer  descended  far 
below  zero  she  would  be  found  stuffing  hay  into 
the  holes  and  cracks  of  the  barn  and  hen-house, 
giving  the  horse  and  cow  fresh  beddings  of  straw 
and  a  mouthful  of  extra  food  between  the  slender 
meals  provided  by  the  Deacon. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  a  fire 
in  the  Baxters'  kitchen  since  six  in  the  morning 
had  produced  a  fairly  temperate  climate  in  that 
one  room,  though  the  entries  and  chambers  might 
have  been  used  for  refrigerators,  as  the  Deacon 
was  as  parsimonious  in  the  use  of  fuel  as  in  all 
other  things,  and  if  his  daughters  had  not  been 
hardy  young  creatures,  trained  from  their  very 
birth  to  discomforts  and  exposures  of  every  sort, 
they  would  have  died  long  ago. 

The  Baxter  kitchen  shone  and  glittered  in 
all  its  accustomed  cleanliness  and  order.  Scrub 
bing  and  polishing  were  cheap  amusements,  and 

270 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

nobody  grudged  them  to  Waitstill.  No  tables  in 
Hiverboro  were  whiter,  no  tins  more  lustrous,  no 
pewter  brighter,  no  brick  hearths  ruddier  than 
hers.  The  beans  and  brown  bread  and  Indian 
pudding  were  basking  in  the  warmth  of  the  old 
brick  oven,  and  what  with  the  crackle  and  sparkle 
of  the  fire,  the  gleam  of  the  blue  willow-ware  on 
the  cupboard  shelves,  and  the  scarlet  geraniums 
blooming  on  the  sunny  shelf  above  the  sink, 
there  were  few  pleasanter  places  to  be  found  in 
the  village  than  that  same  Baxter  kitchen.  Yet 
Waitstill  was  ill  at  ease  this  afternoon;  she  hardly 
knew  why.  Her  father  had  just  put  the  horse  into 
the  pung  and  driven  up  to  Milliken's  Mills  for 
some  grain,  and  Patty  was  down  at  the  store 
instructing  Bill  Morrill  (Cephas  Cole's  successor) 
in  his  novel  task  of  waiting  on  customers  and 
learning  the  whereabouts  of  things;  no  easy  task 
in  the  bewildering  variety  of  stock  in  a  country 
store;  where  pins,  treacle,  gingham,  Epsom  salts, 
Indian  meal,  shoestrings,  shovels,  brooms,  sul 
phur,  tobacco,  suspenders,  rum,  and  indigo  may 
be  demanded  in  rapid  succession. 

Patty  was  quiet  and  docile  these  days,  though 
her  color  was  more  brilliant  than  usual  and  her 
eyes  had  all  their  accustomed  sparkle.  She  went 
about  her  work  steadily,  neither  ranting  nor  rail 
ing  at  fate,  nor  bewailing  her  lot,  but  even  in  this, 

871 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Waitstill  felt  a  sense  of  change  and  difference  too 
subtle  to  be  put  in  words.  She  had  noted  Patty's 
summer  flirtations,  but  regarded  them  indul 
gently,  very  much  as  if  they  had  been  the  irre 
sponsible  friskings  of  a  lamb  in  a  meadow.  AVa  i  t  - 
still  had  more  than  the  usual  reserve  in  these 
matters,  for  in  New  England  at  that  time,  though 
the  soul  was  a  subject  of  daily  conversation,  the 
heart  was  felt  to  be  rather  an  indelicate  topic,  to 
be  alluded  to  as  seldom  as  possible.  Waitstill 
certainly  would  never  have  examined  Patty 
closely  as  to  the  state  of  her  affections,  intimutr 
as  she  was  with  her  sister's  thoughts  and  opinions 
about  life;  she  simply  bided  her  time  until  Patty 
should  confide  in  her.  She  had  wished  now  and 
then  that  Patty's  capricious  fancy  might  settle 
on  Philip  Perry,  although,  indeed,  when  she  con 
sidered  it  seriously,  it  seemed  like  an  alliance  be 
tween  a  butterfly  and  an  owl.  Cephas  Cole  she 
regarded  as  quite  beneath  Patty's  rightful  ambi 
tions,  and  as  for  Mark  Wilson,  she  had  grown  up 
in  the  belief,  held  in  the  village  generally,  that  he 
would  marry  money  and  position,  and  drift  out 
of  Riverboro  into  a  gayer,  larger  world.  Her 
devotion  to  her  sister  was  so  ardent,  and  her 
admiration  so  sincere,  that  she  could  not  think  it 
possible  that  Patty  would  love  anywhere  in  vain; 
nevertheless,  she  had  an  instinct  that  her  affec- 

272 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

lions  were  crystallizing  somewhere  or  other,  and 
when  that  happened,  the  uncertain  and  eccentric 
temper  of  her  father  would  raise  a  thousand 
obstacles. 

While  these  thoughts  coursed  more  or  less  va- 
grantly  through  WaitstilFs  mind,  she  suddenly 
determined  to  get  her  cloak  and  hood  and  run 
over  to  see  Mrs.  Boynton.  Ivory  had  been  away 
a  good  deal  in  the  wroods  since  early  Novem 
ber,'  chopping  trees  and  helping  to  make  new 
roads.  He  could  not  go  long  distances,  like  the 
other  men,  as  he  felt  constrained  to  come  home 
every  day  or  two  to  look  after  his  mother  and 
Rodman,  but  the  work  was  too  lucrative  to 
be  altogether  refused.  With  Wait  still's  help,  he 
had  at  last  overcome  his  mother's  aversion  to 
old  Mrs.  Mason,  their  nearest  neighbor ;  and 
she,  bring  now  a  widow  with  very  slender  re 
sources,  went  to  the  Boyntons'  several  times 
each  week  to  put  the  forlorn  household  a  little 
on  its  feet. 

It  was  all  uphill  and  down  to  Ivory's  farm, 
Waitstill  reflected,  and  she  could  take  h»  r  sled 
and  slide  half  the  way,  going  and  coming.  <>r  she 
could  cut  across  the  frozen  fields  on  the  cru>t. 
Shr  caught  up  her  shawl  from  a  hook  on  the 
kitchen  door ,  and,  throwing  it  over  her  head  and 
shoulders  to  shield  herself  from  the  chill  blasts 

273 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

on  the  stairway,  ran  up  to  her  bedroom  to  make 
herself  ready  for  the  walk. 

She  slipped  on  a  quilted  petticoat  and  warmer 
dress,  braided  her  hair  freshly,  while  her  breath 
went  out  in  a  white  cloud  to  meet  the  freezing 
air;  snatched  her  wraps  from  her  closet,  and  was 
just  going  down  the  stairs  when  she  remembered 
that  an  hour  before,  having  to  bind  up  a  cut 
finger  for  her  father,  she  had  searched  Patty's 
bureau  drawer  for  an  old  handkerchief,  and  had 
left  things  in  disorder  while  she  ran  to  answer 
the  Deacon's  impatient  call  and  stamp  upon 
the  kitchen  floor. 

"Hurry  up  and  don't  make  me  stan'  here  all 
winter!"  he  had  shouted.  "If  you  ever  kept 
things  in  proper  order,  you  would  n't  have  to 
hunt  all  over  the  house  for  a  piece  of  rag  when 
you  need  it!" 

Patty  was  very  dainty  about  her  few  patched 
and  darned  belongings;  also  very  exact  in  the 
adjustment  of  her  bits  of  ribbon,  her  collars  of 
crocheted  thread,  her  adored  coral  pendants,  and 
her  pile  of  neat  cotton  handkerchiefs,  hem 
stitched  by  her  own  hands.  Waitstill,  accord 
ingly,  with  an  exclamation  at  her  own  unwonted 
carelessness,  darted  into  her  sister's  room  to  re 
place  in  perfect  order  the  articles  she  had  disar 
ranged  in  her  haste.  She  knew  them  all,  these 

274 


THE  STORY  OP  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

poor  little  trinkets,  —  humble,  pathetic  evidences 
of  Patty's  feminine  vanity  and  desire  to  make  her 
bright  beauty  a  trifle  brighter. 

Suddenly  her  hand  and  her  eye  fell  at  the  same 
moment  on  something  hidden  in  a  far  corner  un 
der  a  white  "  fascinator, "one  of  those  head-cover 
ings  of  filmy  wool,  dotted  with  beads,  worn  by  the 
girls  of  the  period.  She  drew  the  glittering,  un 
familiar  object  forward,  and  then  lifted  it  won- 
deringly  in  her  hand.  It  was  a  string  of  burnished 
gold  beads,  the  avowed  desire  of  Patty's  heart;  a 
string  of  beads  with  a  brilliant  little  stone  in  the 
fastening.  And,  as  if  that  were  not  mystery 
enough,  there  was  something  slipped  over  the 
(Lisped  necklace  and  hanging  from  it,  as  Wait- 
still  held  it  up  to  the  light  —  a  circlet  of  plain 
gold,  a  wedding-ring! 

Waitstill  stood  motionless  in  the  cold  with  such 
a  throng  of  bewildering  thoughts,  misgivings, 
imaginings,  rushing  through  her  head  [that  they 
were  like  a  flock  of  birds  beating  their  wings 
against  her  ears.  The  imaginings  were  not  those 
of  absolute  dread  or  terror,  for  she  knew  her 
Patty.  If  she  had  seen  the  necklace  alone  she 
would  have  been  anxious,  indeed,  for  it  would 
have  meant  that  the  girl,  urged  on  by  ungovern 
able  desire  for  the  ornament,  had  accepted  a 
present  from  one  who  should  not  have  given  it  to 

275 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

her  secretly;  but  the  wedding-ring  meant  some 
thing  different  for  Patty,—  -  something  more, 
something  certain,  something  unescapable,  for 
good  or  ill.  A  wedding-ring  could  stand  for 
nothing  but  marriage.  Could  Patty  be  married? 
How,  when,  and  where  could  so  great  a  thing 
happen  without  her  knowledge?  It  seemed  im 
possible.  How  had  such  a  child  surmounted  the 
difficulties  in  the  path?  Had  she  been  led  away 
by  the  attractions  of  some  stranger?  No,  there 
had  been  none  in  the  village.  There  was  only  one 
man  who  had  the  worldly  wisdom  or  the  means 
to  carry  Patty  off  under  the  very  eye  of  her 
watchful  sister;  only  one  with  the  reckless  cour 
age  to  defy  her  father;  and  that  was  Mark  Wil 
son.  His  name  did  not  bring  absolute  confidence 
to  Waitstill's  mind.  He  was  gay  and  young  and 
thoughtless;  how  had  he  managed  to  do  this  wild 
thing?  —  and  had  he  done  all  decently  and 
wisely,  with  consideration  for  the  girl's  good 
name?  The  thought  of  all  the  risks  lying  in  the 
train  of  Patty's  youth  and  inexperience  brought 
a  wail  of  anguish  from  Waitstill's  lips,  and, 
dropping  the  beads  and  closing  the  drawer,  she 
stumbled  blindly  down  the  stairway  to  the 
kitchen,  intent  upon  one  thought  only  --to  find 
her  sister,  to  look  in  her  eyes,  feel  the  touch  of 
her  hand,  and  assure  herself  of  her  safety. 

rra 


THE  STORT  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

She  gave  a  dazed  look  at  the  tall  clock,  and 
was  boirinniiig  to  put  on  her  cloak  when  the  door 
opened  and  Patty  entered  the  kitchen  by  way  of 
the  shed;  the  usual  Patty,  rosy,  buoyant,  alert, 
with  a  kind  of  childlike  innocence  that  could 
hardly  be  associated  with  the  possession  of  wed 
ding-rings. 

"Are  you  going  out,  Waity?  Wrap  up  well,  for 
it's  freezing  cold.  Waity,  Waity,  dear!  What's 
the  matter?"  she  cried,  coming  closer  to  her 
sister  in  alarm. 

WaitstilFs  face  had  lost  its  clear  color,  and  her 
eyes  had  the  look  of  some  dumb  animal  that  has 
been  struck  and  wounded.  She  sank  into  the 
1  lag-bottomed  rocker  by  the  window,  and  leaning 
back  her  head,  uttered  no  word,  but  closed  her 
eyes  and  gave  one  long,  shivering  sigh  and  a  dry 
sob  that  seemed  drawn  from  the  very  bottom  of 
heart. 


XXVII 

THE    CONFESSIONAL 

<k  WAITY,  I  know  what  it  is;  you  have  found  out 
about  me!  Who  has  been  wicked  enough  to  tell 
you  before  I  could  do  so  —  tell  me,  who?" 

"Oh,  Patty,  Patty!"  cried  Waitstill,  who 
could  no  longer  hold  back  her  tears.  "  How  could 
you  deceive  me  so?  How  could  you  shut  me  out 
of  your  heart  and  keep  a  secret  like  this  from  me, 
who  have  tried  to  be  mother  and  sister  in  one  to 
you  ever  since  the  day  you  were  born?  God  has 
sent  me  much  to  bear,  but  nothing  so  bitter  as 
this  —  to  have  my  sister  take  the  greatest  step  of 
her  life  without  my  knowledge  or  counsel!" 
"Stop,  dear,  stop,  and  let  me  tell  you!" 
"All  is  told,  and  not  by  you  as  it  should  have 
been.  We've  never  had  anything  separate  from 
each  other  in  all  our  lives,  and  when  I  looked  in 
your  bureau  drawer  for  a  bit  of  soft  cotton  —  it 
was  nothing  more  than  I  have  done  a  hundred 
times  —  you  can  guess  now  what  I  stumbled 
upon;  a  wedding-ring  for  a  hand  I  have  held 
ever  since  it  was  a  baby's.  My  sister  has  a  hus 
band,  and  I  am  not  even  sure  of  his  name!" 

278 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Waity,  Waity,  don't  take  it  so  to  heart!" 
and  Patty  flung  herself  on  her  knees  beside 
Waitstill's  chair.  "Not  till  you  hear  everything! 
When  I  tell  you  all,  you  will  dry  your  eyes  and 
smile  and  be  happy  about  me,  and  you  will 
know  that  in  the  whole  world  there  is  no  one  else 
in  my  love  or  my  life  but  you  and  my  —  my 
husband." 

"Who  is  the  husband?"  asked  Waitstill  dryly, 
as  she  wiped  her  eyes  and  leaned  her  elbow  on  the 
table. 

"Who  could  it  be  but  Mark?  Has  there  ever 
been  any  one  but  Mark? " 

"I  should  have  said  that  there  were  several, 
in  these  past  few  months." 

Waitstill's  tone  showed  clearly  that  she  was 
still  grieved  and  hurt  beyond  her  power  to 
conceal. 

"I  have  never  thought  of  marrying  any  one 
but  Mark,  and  not  even  of  marrying  him  till  a 
little  while  ago,"  said  Patty.  "Now  do  not  draw 
away  from  me  and  look  out  of  the  window  a-  if 
we  were  not  sisters,  or  you  will  break  my  heart. 
Turn  your  eyes  to  mine  and  lirhVve  in  me,  \Yaily, 
while  I  tell  you  everything,  as  I  have  so  In; 
to  do  all  tliex-  nights  and  days.  Mark  and  I  have 
Invedeaeh  other  for  a  long, long  time.  It  was  only 
play  at  first,  but  we  were  young  and  foolish  and 

' 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

did  not  understand  what  was  really  happening 
between  us." 

*  You  are  both  of  you  only  a  few  months  older 
than  when  you  were  'young  and  foolish/"  ob 
jected  Waitstill. 

:<  Yes,  we  are  —  years  and  years!  Five  weeks 
ago  I  promised  Mark  that  I  would  marry  him ;  but 
how  was  I  ever  to  keep  my  word  publicly?  You 
have  noticed  how  insultingly  father  treats  him  of 
late,  passing  him  by  without  a  word  when  he 
meets  him  in  the  street?  You  remember,  too, 
that  he  has  never  gone  to  Lawyer  Wilson  for 
advice,  or  put  any  business  in  his  hands  since 
spring?" 

:<The  Wilsons  are  among  father's  aversions, 
that  is  all  you  can  say;  it  is  no  use  to  try  and 
explain  them  or  rebel  against  them,"  Waitstill 
answered  wearily. 

"That  is  all  very  well,  and  might  be  borne  like 
many  another  cross;  but  I  wanted  to  marry  this 
particular  'aversion,'"  argued  Patty.  "Would 
you  have  helped  me  to  marry  Mark  secretly  if  I 
had  confided  in  you?" 

*  *  Never  in  the  world  —  never ! " 

"I  knew  it,"  exclaimed  Patty  triumphantly. 
"We  both  said  so!  And  what  was  Mark  to  do? 
He  was  more  than  willing  to  come  up  here  and 
ask  for  me  like  a  man,  but  he  knew  that  he  would 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

be  ordered  off  the  premises  as  if  he  were  a  thief. 
That  would  have  angered  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson, 
and  made  matters  worse.  We  talked  and  talked 
until  we  were  hoarse;  we  thought  and  thought 
until  we  nearly  had  brain  fever  from  thinking, 
but  there  seemed  to  be  no  way  but  to  take  the 
bull  by  the  horns." 

"You are  both  so  young, you  could  well  have 
bided  awhile." 

"We  could  have  bided  until  we  were  gray, 
nothing  would  have  changed  father  ;  and  just 
lately  I  could  n't  make  Mark  bide,"  confessed 
Patty  ingenuously.  "He  has  been  in  a  rage 
about  father's  treatment  of  you  and  me.  He 
knows  we  have  n't  the  right  food  to  eat,  nothing 
fit  to  wear,  and  not  an  hour  of  peace  or  freedom, 
lie  ha>  even  heard  the  men  at  the  store  say  that 
our  very  lives  might  be  in  danger  if  we  crossed 
father's  will,  or  angered  him  beyond  a  certain 
point.  You  can't  blame  a  man  who  loves  a  girl,  if 
he  wants  to  take  her  away  from  such  a  wretched 
life.  His  love  would  be  good  for  nothing  if  he  did 
not  long  to  rescue  her!" 

"I  would  never  have  left  you  behind  to  bear 
your  slavery  alone,  while  I  slipped  away  to  happi 
ness  and  comfort —  not  for  any  man  alive  would 
I  have  done  it!"  This  speech,  so  unlike  Wait- 
still  in  its  ungenerous  reproach,  was  repented  of 

281 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

as  soon  as  it  left  her  tongue.  "Oh,  I  did  not 
mean  that,  my  darling !"  she  cried.  "I  would 
have  welcomed  any  change  for  you,  and  thanked 
God  for  it,  if  only  it  could  have  come  honorably 
and  aboveboard." 

"But,  don't  you  see,  Waity,  how  my  marriage 
helps  every  tiling?  That  is  what  makes  me 
happiest;  that  now  I  shall  have  a  home  and  it 
can  be  yours.  Father  has  plenty  of  money  and 
can  get  a  housekeeper.  He  is  only  sixty-five,  and 
as  hale  and  hearty  as  a  man  can  be.  You  have 
served  your  time,  and  surely  you  need  not  be 
his  drudge  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  Mark  and  I 
thought  you  would  spend  half  the  year  with  us." 

Waitstill  waived  this  point  as  too  impossible 
for  discussion.  "When  and  where  were  you 
married,  Patty?"  she  asked. 

"In  Allentown,  New  Hampshire,  last  Monday, 
the  day  you  and  father  went  to  Saco.  Ellen  went 
with  us.  You  need  n't  suppose  it  was  much  fun 
for  me!  Girls  that  think  running  away  to  be 
married  is  nothing  but  a  lark,  do  not  have  to 
deceive  a  sister  like  you,  nor  have  a  father  such 
as  mine  to  reckon  with  afterwards." 

"You  thought  of  all  that  before,  did  n't  you, 
child?" 

"Nobody  that  has  n't  already  run  away  to  be 
married  once  or  twice  could  tell  how  it  was  going 

282 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

to  feel!  Never  did  I  pass  so  unhappy  a  day!  If 
Mark  was  not  everything  that  is  kind  and  gentle, 
he  would  have  tipped  me  out  of  the  sleigh  into  a 
snowbank  and  left  me  by  the  roadside  to  freeze. 
I  might  have  been  murdered  instead  of  only 
married,  by  the  way  I  behaved;  but  Mark  and 
Ellen  understood.  Then,  the  very  next  day, 
Mark's  father  sent  him  up  to  Bridgton  on  busi 
ness,  and  he  had  to  go  to  Allentown  first  to 
return  a  friend's  horse,  so  he  could  n't  break  the 
news  to  father  at  once,  as  he  intended." 

"Does  a  New  Hampshire  marriage  hold  good 
in  Maine?"  asked  \Vaitstill,  still  intent  on  the 
bare  facts  at  the  bottom  of  the  romance. 

"Well,  of  course,"  stammered  Patty,  some 
what  confused,  "  Maine  has  her  own  way  of  doing 
things,  and  would  n't  be  likely  to  fancy  New 
Hampshire's.  But  nothing  can  make  it  wicked  or 
anything  but  according  to  law.  Besides,  Mark 
considered  all  the  difficulties.  He  is  wonderfully 
clever,  and  he  has  a  clerkship  in  a  Portsmouth 
law  office  waiting  for  him;  and  that's  where  we 
are  going  to  live,  in  New  Hampshire,  where  we 
were  married,  and  my  darling  sister  will  come  soon 
and  stay  months  and  months  with  us." 

"\\hen  is  Mark  coming  back  to  arrange  all 
this?" 

"Late  to-night  or  early  to-morrow  morning." 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Where  did  you  go  after  you  were  married?" 

"Where  did  I  go?"  echoed  Patty,  in  a  child 
ish  burst  of  tears.  "Where  could  I  go?  It  took 
all  day  to  be  married  —  all  day  long,  working  and 
driving  hard  from  sunrise  to  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  Then  when  we  reached  the  bridge, 
Mark  dropped  me,  and  I  walked  up  home  in  the 
dark,  and  went  to  bed  without  any  supper,  for 
fear  that  you  and  father  would  come  back  and 
catch  me  at  it  and  ask  why  I  was  so  late." 

"My  poor,  foolish  dear!"  sighed  Waitstill. 

Patty's  tears  flowed  faster  at  the  first  sound  of 
sympathy  in  WaitstilFs  voice,  for  self-pity  is  very 
enfeebling.  She  fairly  sobbed  as  she  continued :  — 

"So  my  only  wedding-journey  was  the  freezing 
drive  back  from  Allentown,  with  Ellen  crying  all 
the  way  and  wishing  that  she  hadn't  gone  with 
us.  Mark  and  I  both  say  we  '11  never  be  married 
again  so  long  as  we  live!" 

"Where  have  you  seen  your  husband  from 
that  day  to  this?" 

"I  haven't  laid  eyes  on  him!"  said  Patty, 
with  a  fresh  burst  of  woe.  "I  have  a  certificate- 
thing,  and  a  wedding-ring  and  a  beautiful  frock 
and  hat  that  Mark  bought  in  Boston,  but  no  real 
husband.  I'm  no  more  married  than  ever  I  was! 
Don't  you  remember  I  said  that  Mark  was  sent 
away  on  Tuesday  morning?  And  this  is  Thurs- 

284 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITS-TILL  BAXTER 

day.  I've  had  three  letters  from  him;  hut  I  don't 
know,  till  we  see  how  father  takes  it,  when  we  can 
tell  the  Wilsons  and  start  for  Portsmouth.  We 
shan't  really  call  ourselves  married  till  we  get  to 
Portsmouth;  we  promised  each  other  that  from 
the  first.  It  is  n't  much  like  being  a  bride,  never 
to  see  your  bridegroom;  to  have  a  father  who  will 
fly  into  a  passion  when  he  hears  that  you  are  mar 
ried;  not  to  know  whet  her  your  new  family  will 
like  or  despise  you;  and  to  have  your  only  sister 
angered  with  you  for  the  first  time  in  her  life!" 

WaitstflTs  heart  melted,  and  she  lifted  Patty's 
tear-stained  face  to  hers  and  kissed  it.  "Well, 
dear,  I  would  not  have  had  you  do  this  for  the 
world,  but  it  is  done,  and  Mark  seems  to  have 
been  as  wise  as  a  man  can  be  when  he  does  an 
unwise  thing.  You  are  married,  and  you  love  each 
other.  That's  the  comforting  thing  to  me." 

"We  do,"  sobbed  Patty.  "No  two  people  ever 
loved  each  other  better  than  we;  but  it's  been  all 
spoiled  for  fear  of  father." 

"I  must  say  I  dread  to  have  him  hear  the 
news";  and  Waitstill  knitted  herhrowsanxiously. 
"I  hope  it  may  he  soon,  and  I  think  I  ought  to 
be  here  when  he  is  told.  Mark  will  never  under 
stand  or  bear  with  him,  and  there  may  be  trouble 
that  I  could  avert." 

"I'll  be  here,  too,  and  I'm  not  afraid!"  and 
285 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Patty  raised  her  head  defiantly.  "Father  can't 
unmarry  us,  that's  why  we  acted  in  this  miser 
able,  secret,  underhanded  way.  Somehow,  though 
I  have  n't  seen  Mark  since  we  went  to  Allentown, 
I  am  braver  than  I  was  last  week,  for  now  I've 
got  somebody  to  take  my  part.  I  Ve  a  good  mind 
to  go  upstairs  and  put  on  my  gold  beads  and  my 
wedding-ring,  just  to  get  used  to  them  and  to  feel 
a  little  more  married.  --  No:  I  can't,  after  all,  for 
there  is  father  driving  up  the  hill  now,  and  he 
may  come  into  the  house.  What  brings  him  home 
at  this  hour?" 

"I  was  expecting  him  every  moment";  and 
Waitstill  rose  and  stirred  the  fire.  "He  took  the 
pung  and  went  to  the  Mills  for  grain." 

"  He  has  n't  anything  in  the  back  of  the  pung  — 
and,  oh,  Waity !  he  is  standing  up  now  and  whip 
ping  the  horse  with  all  his  might.  I  never  saw  him 
drive  like  that  before:  what  can  be  the  matter? 
He  can't  have  seen  my  wedding-ring,  and  only 
three  people  in  all  the  world  know  about  my  being 
married." 

Waitstill  turned  from  the  window,  her  heart 
beating  a  little  faster.  "  What  three  people  know, 
three  hundred  are  likely  to  know  sooner  or  later. 
It  may  be  a  false  alarm,  but  father  is  in  a  fury 
about  something.  He  must  not  be  told  the  news 
until  he  is  in  a  better  humor!" 


XXVIII 

PATTY    IS   SHOWN    THE    DOOR 

DEACON  BAXTER  drove  into  the  barn,  and  fli Hir 
ing  a  blanket  over  the  wheezing  horse,  closed  the 
door  behind  him  and  hurried  into  the  house  with 
out  even  thinking  to  lay  down  his  whip. 

Opening  the  kitchen  door  and  stopping  out 
side  long  enough  to  kick  the  snow  from  his  heavy 
boots,  he  strode  into  the  kitchen  and  confronted 
the  two  girls.  He  looked  at  them  sharply  before 
he  spoke,  scanning  their  flushed  faces  and  tear- 
stained  eyes;  then  he  broke  out  savagely:  — 

"Oh!  you're  both  here;  that's  lucky.  Now 
stan*  up  and  answer  to  me.  What's  this  I  hear 
at  the  Mills  about  Patience,  —  common  talk 
outside  the  store?" 

The  time  had  come,  then,  and  by  some  strange 
fatality,  when  Mark  was  too  far  away  to  be  of 
service. 

"Tell  me  what  you  heard,  father,  and  I  can 
u'ive  yon  a  bet  ter  answer,"  Patty  replied,  hedging 
to  gain  time,  and  shaking  inwardly. 

"Bill  Morrill  says  his  brother  that  works  in 
New  Hampshire  reports  you  as  ridin'  through  the 

887 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 
streets  of  Allentown  last  Monday  with  a  young 


man.'1 


There  seemed  but  one  reply  to  this,  so  Patty 
answered  tremblingly:  "He  says  what's  true;  I 
was  there." 

"  What !  "  And  it  was  plain  from  the  Deacon's 
voice  that  he  had  really  disbelieved  the  rumor. 
A  whirlwind  of  rage  swept  through  him  and  shook 
him  from  head  to  foot. 

"Do  you  mean  to  stan'  there  an'  own  up  to 
me  that  you  was  thirty  miles  away  from  home 
with  a  young  man?"  he  shouted. 

"If  you  ask  me  a  plain  question,  I've  got  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  father:  I  was." 

"  How  dare  you  carry  on  like  that  and  drag  my 
name  into  scandal,  you  worthless  trollop,  you? 
Who  went  along  with  you?  I'll  skin  the  hide  off 
him,  whoever  't  was!" 

Patty  remained  mute  at  this  threat,  but  Wait- 
still  caught  her  hand  and  whispered:  "Tell  him 
all,  dear;  it's  got  to  come  out.  Be  brave,  and  I '11 
stand  by  you." 

"Why  are  you  interferin'  and  puttin'  in  your 
meddlesome  oar?"  the  Deacon  said,  turning  to 
Waitstill.  "The  girl  would  never  'a'  been  there 
if  you  'd  attended  to  your  business.  She 's  nothin' 
but  a  fool  of  a  young  filly,  an'  you  're  an  old  cart 
horse.  It  was  your  job  to  look  out  for  her  as  your 

288 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKU 

mother  told  you  to.  Anybody  might  'a'  guessed 
she  needed  watchin'!" 

"You  shall  not  call  my  sister  an  old  cart-horse! 
I'll  not  permit  it!"  cried  Patty,  plucking  up 
courage  in  her  sister's  defence,  and  as  usual  com 
porting  herself  a  trifle  more  like  a  spitfire  than  a 
true  heroine  of  tragedy. 

"Hush,  Patty!  Let  him  call  me  anything  that 
he  likes;  it  makes  no  difference  at  such  a  time." 

M  Waitstill  knew  nothing  of  my  going  away  till 
this  afternoon,  "continued  Patty.  "I  keptitsecret 
from  her  on  purpose,  because  I  was  afraid  she 
would  not  approve.  I  went  with  Murk  Wilson, 
and  —  and  --  I  married  him  in  New  Hampshire 
because  we  could  n't  do  it  at  home  without  every 
body's  knowledge.  Now  you  know  all." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you've  gone  an' 
married  that  reckless,  \\uthless,  horse-trottin', 
card-playin '  sneak  of  a  Wilson  boy  that 's  courted 
every  girl  in  town?  Married  the  son  of  a  man 
that  has  quarrelled  with  me  and  insulted  me  in 
public?  By  the  Lord  Harry,  I'll  crack  this  whip 
over  your  shoulders  once  before  I'm  done  with 
you!  If  I'd  used  it  years  ago  you  ini.uht  have 
been  an  honest  woman  to-day,  in-tead  of  a - 

Foxwell  Baxter  had  wholly  lost  control  of  him 
self, and  the  temper,  that  had  never  I  >een  governed 
or  held  in  check,  lashed  itself  into  a  fury  that 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

made  him  for  the  moment  unaccountable  for  his 
words  or  actions. 

Waitstill  took  a  step  forward  in  front  of  Patty. 
"Put  down  that  whip,  father,  or  I'll  take  it 
from  you  and  break  it  across  my  knee ! "  Her  eyes 
blazed  and  she  held  her  head  high.  "You've 
made  me  do  the  work  of  a  man,  and,  thank  God, 
I  've  got  the  muscle  of  one.  Don't  lift  a  finger  to 
Patty,  or  I  '11  defend  her,  I  promise  you !  The  din 
ner-horn  is  in  the  side  entry  and  two  blasts  will 
bring  Uncle  Bart  up  the  hill,  but  I'd  rather  not 
call  him  unless  you  force  me  to." 

The  Deacon's  grasp  on  the  whip  relaxed,  and  he 
fell  back  a  little  in  sheer  astonishment  at  the 
bravado  of  the  girl,  ordinarily  so  quiet  and  self- 
contained.  He  was  speechless  for  a  second,  and 
then  recovered  breath  enough  to  shout  to  the 
terrified  Patty:  "I  won't  use  the  whip  till  I  hear 
whether  you  've  got  any  excuse  for  your  scandal 
ous  behavior.  Hear  me  tell  you  one  thing:  this 
little  pleasure-trip  o'  yourn  won't  do  you  no  good, 
for  I  '11  break  the  marriage!  I  won't  have  aWilson 
in  my  family  if  I  have  to  empty  a  shot-gun  into 
him;  but  your  lies  and  your  low  conduct  are  so  be 
yond  reason  I  can't  believe  my  ears.  What 's  your 
excuse,  I  say?" 

"Stop  a  minute,  Patty,  before  you  answer,  and 
let  me  say  a  few  things  that  ought  to  have  been 

290 


ITT   D«»\VN    i  HA  i    \viiir.    i  \irni:.    <>u    i  i.i.  T\KK   IT 

I  K.»M    YOU" 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

said  before  now,"  interposed  Waitstill.  "If  Patty 
h:is  done  wrong,  father,  you've  no  one  but  your 
self  to  thank  for  it,  and  it 's  only  by  God's  grace 
that  nothing  worse  has  happened  to  her.  What 
could  you  expect  from  a  young  thing  like  that, 
with  her  merry  heart  turned  into  a  lump  in  her 
breast  every  day  by  your  cruelty?  Did  she  de 
ceive  you?  Well,  you've  made  her  afraid  of  you 
ever  since  she  was  a  baby  in  the  cradle,  drawing 
the  covers  over  her  little  head  when  she  heard 
your  step.  Whatever  crop  you  sow  is  bound  to 
come  up,  father;  that's  Nature's  law,  and  God's, 
as  well." 

"You  hold  your  tongue,  you,  —  readin'  the 
law  to  your  elders  an'  betters,"  said  the  old  man, 
choking  with  wrath.  "My  business  is  with  this 
wuthless  >ist  er  o'  yourn,  not  with  you!  -  -  You '  vc 
got  your  coat  and  hood  on,  miss,  so  you  jest  clear 
out  o'  the  house;  an'  if  you're  too  slow  about 
it,  I'll  help  you  along.  I've  no  kind  of  an  id*  a 
you're  rightly  married,  for  that  young  Wilson 
sneak  would  n't  pay  so  high  for  you  as  all  that ; 
but  if  it  amuses  you  to  call  him  your  husband, 
L:O  aif  find  him  uif  stay  with  him.  This  is  an 
honrst  house,  an'  no  place  for  sneh  as  yon!" 

Tatty  had  a  good  shaiv  of  the  Baxter  temper, 
not  under  such  control  u  Wait  still's,  and  the 
blood  mounted  into  her  face. 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

'You  shall  not  speak  to  me  so!"  she  said  in 
trepidly,  while  keeping  a  discreet  eye  on  the  whip. 
"I'm  not  a  —  a  —  caterpillar  to  be  stepped  on, 
I  'm  a  married  woman,  as  right  as  a  New  Hamp 
shire  justice  can  make  me,  with  a  wedding-ring 
and  a  certificate  to  show,  if  need  be.  And  you 
shall  not  call  my  husband  names!  Time  will  I-  11 
what  he  is  going  to  be,  and  that's  a  son-in-law 
any  true  father  would  be  proud  to  own!" 

"Why  are  you  set  against  this  match,  father? " 
argued  Waitstill,  striving  to  make  him  hear  rea 
son.  "Patty  has  married  into  one  of  the  best 
families  in  the  village.  Mark  is  gay  and  thought 
less,  but  never  has  he  been  seen  the  worse  for 
liquor,  and  never  has  he  done  a  thing  for  which 
a  wife  need  hang  her  head.  It  is  something  for  a 
young  fellow  of  four-and-twenty  to  be  able  to 
provide  for  a  wife  and  keep  her  in  comfort;  and 
when  all  is  said  and  done,  it  is  a  true  love-match." 

Patty  seized  this  inopportune  moment  to  forget 
her  father's  presence,  and  the  tragic  nature  of  the 
occasion,  and,  in  her  usual  impetuous  fashion, 
flung  her  arms  around  Waitstill'fl  neck  and  gave 
her  the  hug  of  a  young  bear. 

"  My  own  dear  sister,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  mind 
anything,  so  long  as  you  stand  up  for  us." 

"Don't  make  her  go  to-night,  father,"  pleaded 
Waitstill.  "Don't  send  your  own  child  out  into 

292 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

the  cold.  Remember  her  husband  is  away  from 
home." 

"She  can  find  another  up  at  the  Mills  as  good 
as  he  is,  or  better.  Off  with  you,  I  say,  you  trum 
pery  little  baggage,  you!" 

"Go,  then,  dear,  it  is  better  so;  Uncle  Bart 
will  keep  you  overnight;  run  up  and  get  your 
things";  and  Waitstill  sank  into  a  chair,  realizing 
the  hopelessness  of  the  situation. 

"She'll  not  take  anything  from  my  house.  It's 
her  husband's  business  to  find  her  in  clothes." 

"They'll  be  better  ones  than  ever  you  found 
me,"  was  Patty's  response. 

No  heroics  for  her;  no  fainting  fits  at  being 
disowned;  no  hysterics  at  being  turned  out  of 
house  and  home ;  no  prayers  for  mercy,  but  a  quick 
retort  for  every  gibe  from  her  father;  and  her 
defiant  attitude  enraged  the  Deacon  the  more. 

"I  won't  speak  again,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that 
could  not  l>c  mistaken.  "Into  the  street  yon  go, 
with  the  clothes  you  stand  up  in,  or  I'll  do  what 
I  said  I'd  do." 

"Go,  Patty,  it's  the  only  thing  to  be  done*. 
Don't  tremble,  for  nobody  shall  touch  a  hair  of 
your  head.  I  can  trust  yon  to  find  shelter  to 
night, and  Mark  will  take  eareof  von  to-morrow." 

Patty  buttoned  ber  shabby  coat  and  tied  on  her 
hood  as  she  walked  from  the  kitchen  through  the 

293 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

sitting-room  towards  the  side  door,  her  heart 
heaving  with  shame  and  anger,  and  above  all  with 
a  child's  sense  of  helplessness  at  being  parted 
from  her  sister. 

"Don't  tell  the  neighbors  any  more  lies  than 
you  can  help,"  called  her  father  after  her  retreat 
ing  form;  "an'  if  any  of  'em  dare  to  come  up  here 
an'  give  me  any  of  their  imperdence,  they'll  be 
treated  same  as  you.  Come  back  here,  Waitstill, 
and  don't  go  to  slobberin'  any  good-byes  over 
her.  She  ain't  likely  to  get  out  o'  the  village  for 
some  time  if  she 's  expectin'  Mark  Wilson  to  take 
her  away." 

"I  shall  certainly  go  to  the  door  with  my  sister," 
said  Waitstill  coldly,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  and  following  Patty  out  on  the  steps. 
"Shall  you  tell  Uncle  Bart  everything,  dear,  and 
ask  him  to  let  you  sleep  at  his  house?" 

Both  girls  were  trembling  with  excitement; 
WTaitstill  pale  as  a  ghost,  Patty  flushed  and  tear 
ful,  with  defiant  eyes  and  lips  that  quivered 
rebelliously. 

"I  s'pose  so,"  she  answered  dolefully;  "though 
Aunt  Abby  hates  me,  on  account  of  Cephas.  I  'd 
rather  go  to  Dr.  Perry's,  but  I  don't  like  to  meet 
Phil.  There  does  n't  seem  to  be  any  good  place 
for  me,  but  it's  only  for  a  night.  And  you'll  not 
let  father  prevent  your  seeing  Mark  and  me  to- 

294 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKK 

morrow,  will  you?  Are  you  afraid  to  stay  alone? 
I  '11  sit  on  the  steps  all  night  if  you  say  the  word." 

44  No,  no,  run  along.  Father  has  vented  his 
rage  upon  you,  and  I  shall  not  have  any  more 
trouble.  God  bless  and  keep  you,  darling.  Run 
along!" 

"And  you're  not  angry  with  me  now,  Waity? 
You  still  love  me?  And  you'll  forgive  Mark  and 
come  to  stay  with  us  soon,  soon,  soon?" 

"We'll  see,  dear,  when  all  this  unhappy  busi 
ness  is  settled,  and  you  are  safe  and  happy  in 
your  own  home.  I  shall  have  much  to  tell  you 
when  we  meet  to-morrow." 


XXIX 

WAITSTILL   SPEAKS    HER   MIND 

PATTY  had  the  most  ardent  love  for  her  elder  sis 
ter,  and  something  that  resembled  reverence  for 
her  unselfishness,  her  loyalty,  and  her  strength  of 
character;  but  if  the  truth  were  told  she  had  no 
great  opinion  of  Wait  still's  ability  to  feel  righteous 
wrath,  nor  of  her  power  to  avenge  herself  in  the 
face  of  rank  injustice.  It  was  the  conviction  of 
her  own  superior  finesse  and  audacity  that  had 
sustained  Patty  all  through  her  late  escapade. 
She  felt  herself  a  lucky  girl,  indeed,  to  achieve 
liberty  and  happiness  for  herself,  but  doubly 
lucky  if  she  had  chanced  to  open  a  way  of  escape 
for  her  more  docile  and  dutiful  sister. 

She  would  have  been  a  trifle  astonished  had 
she  surmised  the  existence  of  certain  mysterious 
waves  that  had  been  sweeping  along  the  coasts 
of  Waitstill's  mind  that  afternoon,  breaking  down 
all  sorts  of  defences  and  carrying  her  will  along 
with  them  by  sheer  force:  but  it  is  a  truism  that 
1  \\ o  human  beings  can  live  beside  each  other  for 
half  a  century  and  yet  continue  strangers. 

Patty 's  elopement  with  the  yout  li  of  her  choice, 
taking  into  account  all  its  attendant  risks,  was 

296 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

indeed  an  exhibition  of  courage  and  initiative 
not  common  to  girls  of  seventeen;  but  Waitstill 
was  meditating  a  mutiny  more  daring  yet  —  a 
mutiny,  too,  involving  a  course  of  conduct  most 
unusual  in  maidens  of  Puritan  descent. 

She  walked  back  into  the  kitchen  to  find  her 
fa  I  IKT  sitting  placidly  in  the  rocking-chair  by  the 
window.  He  had  lighted  his  corn-cob  pipe,  in 
which  he  always  smoked  a  mixture  of  dried  sweet- 
fern  as  being  cheaper  than  tobacco,  and  his  face 
wore  something  resembling  a  smile  -  a  foxy 
smile  —  as  he  watched  his  youngest-born  plough 
ing  down  the  hill  through  the  deep  snow,  while 
the  more  obedient  Waitstill  moved  about  the 
room,  setting  supper  on  the  table. 

Conversation  was  not  the  Deacon's  forte,  but 
it  seemed  proper  for  some  one  to  break  the  ice 
that  seemed  suddenly  to  be  very  thick  in  the  im 
mediate  vicinity. 

"That  little  Jill-go-over-the-ground  will  give 
the  neighbors  a  pleasant  eveniif,  tellin'  'em 
'bout  me,"  he  chuckled.  *'Aunt  Abby  Cole  will 
run  the  streets  o'  the  three  villages  by  -un-np  to- 
nionvr:  but  nobody  pays  any  'lent  ion  to  a  woman 
whose  tonmic  is  hnnu:  in  I  lie  middle  ami  wags  at 
both  ends.  I  wa'n't  intending  lo  n<e  the  whip  on 
your  sister,  Waitstill,"  continued  the  Deacon, 
with  a  crafty  look  at  his  silent  daughter,  "though 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

a  trouncin'  would  'a'  done  her  a  sight  o'  good;  but 
I  was  only  tryin'  to  frighten  her  a  little  mite  an' 
pay  her  up  for  bringin'  disgrace  on  us  the  way 
she 's  done,  makin'  us  the  talk  o'  the  town.  Well, 
she's  gone,  an'  good  riddance  to  bad  rubbish,  say 
I!  One  less  mouth  to  feed,  an'  one  less  body  te 
clothe.  You  '11  miss  her  jest  at  first,  on  account 
o'  there  bein'  no  other  women-folks  on  the  hill, 
but  't  won't  last  long.  I  '11  have  Bill  Morrill  do 
some  o'  your  outside  chores,  so  't  you  can  take 
on  your  sister's  work,  if  she  ever  done  any." 

This  was  a  most  astoundingly  generous  propo 
sition  on  the  Deacon's  part,  and  to  tell  the  truth 
he  did  not  himself  fully  understand  his  mental 
processes  when  he  made  it;  but  it  seemed  to  be 
drawn  from  him  by  a  kind  of  instinct  that  he  was 
not  standing  well  in  his  elder  daughter's  books. 
Though  the  two  girls  had  never  made  any  demon 
stration  of  their  affection  in  his  presence,  he  had 
a  fair  idea  of  their  mutual  dependence  upon  each 
other.  Not  that  he  placed  the  slightest  value  on 
Waitstill's  opinion  of  him,  or  cared  in  the  smallest 
degree  what  she,  or  any  one  else  in  the  universe, 
thought  of  his  conduct;  but  she  certainly  did  ap 
pear  to  advantage  when  contrasted  with  the  pert 
little  hussy  who  had  just  left  the  premises.  Also, 
Waitstill  loomed  large  in  his  household  comforts 
and  economies,  having  a  clear  head,  a  sure  hand, 

298 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  being  one  of  the  steady-going,  reliable  sort 
that  can  be  counted  on  in  emergencies,  not,  like 
Patty,  going  off  at  half-cock  at  the  smallest 
provocation.  Yes,  Waitstill,  as  a  product  of  his 
masterly  training  for  the  last  seven  years,  had 
settled  down,  not  without  some  trouble  and  fric 
tion,  into  a  tolerably  dependable  pack-horse,  and 
he  intended  in  the  future  to  use  some  care  in 
making  permanent  so  valuable  an  aid  and  ally. 
She  did  not  pursue  nor  attract  the  opposite  sex, 
as  his  younger  daughter  apparently  did;  so  by 
continuing  his  policy  of  keeping  all  young  men 
rigidly  at  a  distance  he  could  count  confidently 
on  having  Waitstill  serve  his  purposes  for  the  next 
fifteen  or  twenty  years,  or  as  long  as  he,  himself, 
should  continue  to  ornament  and  enrich  the  earth. 
He  would  go  to  Suco  the  very  next  day,  and 
cut  Patty  out  of  his  will,  arranging  his  property 
so  that  Waitstill  should  be  the  chief  legatee  as 
long  as  she  continued  to  live  obediently  under 
li is  roof.  Hr  intended  to  make  the  last  point  clear 
if  he  had  to  consult  every  lawyer  in  York  County; 
for  he  would  n't  take  risks  on  any  woman  alive. 
If  he  must  leave  his  money  anywhere  —  and  it 
was  wit  li  ft  bitter  pang  that  he  faced  the  inexorable 
conviction  that  he  c<>ul<i  neither  live  forever,  nor 
take  his  savings  with  him  to  the  realms  of  bliss 
prepared  for  members  of  the  Orthodox  Church 

299 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

in  good  and  regular  standing  —  if  he  must  leave 
his  money  behind  him,  he  would  dig  a  hole  in  the 
ground  and  bury  it,  rather  than  let  it  go  to  any 
one  who  had  angered  him  in  his  lifetime. 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  caused  him  to 
relax  his  iron  grip  and  smile  as  he  sat  by  the 
window,  smoking  his  corn-cob  pipe  and  taking 
one  of  his  very  rare  periods  of  rest. 

Presently  he  glanced  at  the  clock.  "It's  only 
quarter-past  four,"  he  said.  "I  thought  'twas 
later,  but  the  snow  makes  it  so  light  you  can't 
jedge  the  time.  The  moon  fulls  to-night,  don't 
it?  Yes;  come  to  think  of  it,  I  know  it  does.  Ain't 
you  settin'  out  supper  a  little  mite  early,  Wait- 
still?" 

This  was  a  longer  and  more  amiable  speech 
than  he  had  made  in  years,  but  Waitstill  never 
glanced  at  him  as  she  said:  "It  is  a  little  early, 
but  I  want  to  get  it  ready  before  I  leave." 

"Be  you  goin'  out?  Mind,  I  won't  have  you 
follerin'  Patience  round;  you'll  only  upset  what 
I  've  done,  an'  anyhow  I  want  you  to  keep  away 
from  the  neighbors  for  a  few  days,  till  all  this 
blows  over." 

He  spoke  firmly,  though  for  him  mildly,  for  he 
still  had  the  uneasy  feeling  that  he  stood  on  the 
brink  of  a  volcano;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
tumbled  into  it  the  very  next  moment. 

300 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTJ 

The  meagre  supper  was  spread;  a  plate  of  cold 
soda  biscuits,  a  dried-apple  pie,  and  the  usual 
brown  teapot  were4  in  evidence;  and  as  her  father 
sed  speaking  Waitstill  opened  the  door  of  the 
brick  oven  where  the  bean-pot  reposed,  set  a  chair 
by  the  table,  and  turning,  took  up  her  coat  (her 
mother's  old  riding-cloak,  it  was),  and  calmly  put 
it  on,  reaching  then  for  her  hood  and  her  squirrel 
tippet. 

"  You  are  goin'  out,  then,  spite  o'  what  I  said?  " 
the  Deacon  inquired  sternly. 

"Did  you  really  think,  father,  that  I  would 
sleep  under  your  roof  after  you  had  turned  my 
sister  out  into  the  snow  to  lodge  with  whoever 
might  take  her  in  —  my  seventeen  year-old-sister 
that  your  wife  left  to  my  care;  my  little  sister,  the 
very  light  of  my  life?" 

Waitstill's  voice  trembled  a  trifle,  but  other 
wise  slie  was  quite  calm  and  free  from  heroics  of 
any  sort. 

The  Deacon  looked  up  in  surprise.       I  ^uess 

you're  kind  o'  hystericky,"  he  said.    "Set  down 

-  set  down  aif  talk   tilings   over.     I  ain't  got 

nothin'  ag'in'  yon,  an'  I  mean  to  treat  yon  right. 

Set  down!" 

The  old  man  was  decidedly  nervous,  and  in 
tended  to  keep  his  temper  until  there  was  a  safer 
chance  to  let  it  fly. 

301 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Waitstill  sat  down.  " There's  nothing  to  talk 
over,"  she  said.  "I  have  done  all  that  I  promised 
my  stepmother  the  night  she  died,  and  now  I  am 
going.  If  there 's  a  duty  owed  between  daughter 
and  father,  it  ought  to  work  both  ways.  I  con 
sider  that  I  have  done  my  share,  and  now  I  in 
tend  to  seek  happiness  for  myself.  I  have  never 
had  any,  and  I  am  starving  for  it." 

"An'  you'd  leave  me  to  git  on  the  best  I  can, 
after  what  I've  done  for  you?"  burst  out  the 
Deacon,  still  trying  to  hold  down  his  growing 
passion. 

;t  You  gave  me  my  life,  and  I  'm  thankful  to  you 
for  that,  but  you  've  given  me  little  since,  father." 

"Hain't  I  fed  an'  clothed  you?" 

"No  more  than  I  have  fed  and  clothed  you. 
You've  provided  the  raw  food,  and  I've  cooked 
and  served  it.  You've  bought  cloth,  and  I  have 
made  shirts  and  overalls  and  coats  for  you,  and 
knitted  your  socks  and  comforters  and  mittens. 
Not  only  have  I  toiled  and  saved  and  scrimped 
away  my  girlhood  as  you  bade  me,  but  I've 
earned  for  you.  Who  made  the  butter,  and  took 
care  of  the  hens,  and  dried  the  apples,  and  *  drew 
in'  the  rugs?  Who  raised  and  ground  the  peppers 
for  sale,  and  tended  the  geese  that  you  might  sell 
the  feathers?  No,  father,  I  don't  consider  that 
I'm  in  your  debt!" 


XXX 

A    CLASH    OF   WILLS 

DEACON  FOXWELL  BAXTER  was  completely  non 
plussed  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  He  had  never 
allowed  "argyfyin"'  in  his  household,  and  there 
had  never  been  a  clash  of  wills  before  this  when 
he  had  not  come  off  swiftly  and  brutally  tri 
umphant.  This  situation  was  complicated  by  the 
fact  that  he  did  not  dare  to  apply  the  brakes  as 
usual,  since  there  were  more  issues  involved  than 
ever  before.  He  felt  too  stunned  to  deal  properly 
with  this  daughter,  having  emptied  all  the  vials 
of  his  wrath  upon  the  other  one,  and  being,  in  con 
sequence,  somewhat  enfeebled.  It  was  always  easy 
enough  to  cope  with  Patty,  for  her  impertinence 
evoked  such  rage  that  the  argument  took  care  of 
itself;  but  this  g rave  young  woman  was  a  differ 
ent  mat  I  IT.  There  she  sat  composedly  on  the  e<lire 
of  her  wooden  chair,  her  head  lifted  high,  her 
color  coming  and  going,  her  eyes  shining  steadily, 
like  fixed  stars;  there  she  sat,  calmly  announcing 
her  intention  of  leaving  her  father  to  shift  for 
himself;  yet  the  skies  seemed  to  have  no  thought 
of  falling!  He  felt  that  he  must  make  another 
effort  to  assert  his  authority. 

* 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Now,  you  take  off  your  coat,"  he  said,  the 
pipe  in  his  hand  trembling  as  he  stirred  nervously 
in  his  chair.  "You  take  your  coat  right  off  an' 
set  down  to  the  supper-table,  same  as  usual,  do 
you  hear?  Eat  your  victuals  an'  then  go  to  your 
bed  an'  git  over  this  crazy  fit  that  Patience  has 
started  workin'  in  you.  No  more  nonsense,  now; 
do  as  I  tell  you!" 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind,  father,  and  it's  no 
use  arguing.  All  who  try  to  live  with  you  fail, 
sooner  or  later.  You  have  had  four  children,  fa 
ther.  One  boy  ran  away;  the  other  did  not  mind 
being  drowned,  I  fear,  since  life  was  so  hard  at 
home.  You  have  just  turned  the  third  child  out 
for  a  sin  of  deceit  and  disobedience  she  would 
never  have  committed — for  her  nature  is  as  clear 
as  crystal -- if  you  had  ever  loved  her  or  con 
sidered  her  happiness.  So  I  have  done  with  you, 
unless  in  your  old  age  God  should  bring  you  to 
such  a  pass  that  no  one  else  will  come  to  your 
assistance;  then  I'd  see  somehow  that  you  were 
cared  for  and  nursed  and  made  comfortable.  You 
are  not  an  old  man;  you  are  strong  and  healthy, 
and  you  have  plenty  of  money  to  get  a  good  house 
keeper.  I  should  decide  differently,  perhaps,  if  all 
this  were  not  true." 

"You  lie!  I  haven't  got  plenty  of  money!" 
And  the  Deacon  struck  the  table  a  sudden  blow 

304 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

that  made  the  china  in  the  cupboard  rattle. 
"  You've  no  notion  what  this  house  costs  me,  an* 
the  feed  for  the  stock,  an*  you  two  girls,  an'  labor 
at  the  store,  an'  the  hay -field,  an'  the  taxes  an' 
insurance!  I've  slaved  from  sunrise  to  sunset, 
but  I  ain't  hardly  been  able  to  lay  up  a  cent.  I 
s'pose  the  neighbors  have  been  fillin'  you  full  o' 
tales  about  my  mis'able  little  savin's  an'  makin' 
'em  into  a  fortune.  Well,  you  won't  git  any  of 
'em,  I  promise  you  that!" 

"  You  have  plenty  laid  away;  everybody  knows, 
so  what's  the  use  of  denying  it?  Anyway,  I  don't 
want  a  penny  of  your  money,  father,  so  good 
bye.  There's  enough  cooked  to  keep  you  for  a 
couple  of  days";  and  Waitstill  rose  from  her  chair 
and  drew  on  her  mittens. 

Father  and  daughter  confronted  each  other, 
t  he  secret  fury  of  the  man  met  by  the  steady  deter 
mination  of  the  girl.  The  Deacon  was  baffled, 
almost  awed,  by  Waitstill's  quiet  self-control;  but 
at  the  very  moment  that  lie  WM  halt'-nneompre- 
hendingly  .daring  at  her,  it  dawned  upon  him  that 
he  was  beaten,  and  that  she  was  mistress  of  the 
situation. 

Where  would  she  go?  What  \vrre  IHT  plan-' 
for  definite  plans  she  had,  or  she  could  not  m<  •  t 
liU  eye  with  so  resolute  a  gaze.    If  she  did  leave 
him.  how  could  he  contrive  to  get  her  back  again, 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  so  escape  the  scorn  of  the  village,  the  averted 
look,  the  lessened  trade? 

"Where  are  you  goin'  now?"  he  asked,  and 
though  he  tried  his  best  he  could  not  for  the  life 
of  him  keep  back  one  final  taunt.  "I  s'pose,  like 
your  sister,  you've  got  a  man  in  your  eye?"  He 
chose  this,  to  him,  impossible  suggestion  as  being 
the  most  insulting  one  that  he  could  invent  at  the 
moment. 

"I  have,"  replied  Waitstill,  "a  man  in  my  eye 
and  in  my  heart.  We  should  have  been  husband 
and  wife  before  this  had  we  not  been  kept  apart 
by  obstacles  too  stubborn  for  us  to  overcome. 
My  way  has  chanced  to  open  first,  though  it  was 
none  of  my  contriving." 

Had  the  roof  fallen  in  upon  him,  the  Deacon 
could  not  have  been  more  dumbfounded.  His 
tongue  literally  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth; 
his  face  fell,  and  his  mean,  piercing  eyes  blinked 
under  his  shaggy  brows  as  if  seeking  light. 

Waitstill  stirred  the  fire,  closed  the  brick 
oven  and  put  the  teapot  on  the  back  of  the 
stove,  hung  up  the  long-handled  dipper  on  its 
accustomed  nail  over  the  sink,  and  went  to  the 
door. 

Her  father  collected  his  scattered  wits  and 
pulled  himself  to  his  feet  by  the  arms  of  the  high- 
backed  rocker.  "You  shan't  step  outside  this 

306 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

room  till  you  tell  me  where  you're  goin',"  he 
said  when  he  found  his  voice. 

"I  hare  no  wish  to  keep  it  secret:  I  am  going  to 
see  if  Mrs.  Mason  will  keep  me  to-night.  To 
morrow  I  shall  walk  down  river  and  get  work  at 
the  mills,  but  on  my  way  I  shall  stop  at  the 
Boyntons'  to  tell  Ivory  I  am  ready  to  marry  him 
as  soon  as  he's  ready  to  take  me." 

This  was  enough  to  stir  the  blood  of  the  Dea 
con  into  one  last  fury. 

"I  might  have  guessed  it  if  I  had  n't  been  blind 
as  a  bat  an'  deaf  as  an  adder!"  And  he  gave  the 
table  another  ringing  blow  before  he  leaned  on  it 
to  gather  strength.  "  Of  course,  it  would  be  one 
o'  that  crazy  Boynton  crew  you'd  take  up  with," 
he  roared.  " Nothin'  would  s^iit  either  o'  you  girls 
but  choosin'  the  biggest  enemies  I  've  got  in  the 
whole  village!" 

"You've  never  taken  pains  to  make  anything 
but  enemies,  so  what  could  we  do?" 

14  You  might  as  well  .uo  to  live  on  the  poor-farm! 
Aaron  Boynton  was  a  disrep'taMe  hound;  Lois 
Boynton  is  as  crazy  as  a  loon;  the  boy  is  a  no- 
i>ody's  child,  an'  Ivory's  no  better  than  a  com 
mon  pauper." 

11  Ivory's  a  brave,  strong,  honorable  man,  and 
a  scholar,  too.  I  can  work  for  him  and  help  him 
earn  and  save,  as  I  have  yon." 

:;o7 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"How  long's  this  been  goin'  on?"  The  Deacon 
was  choking,  but  he  meant  to  get  to  the  bottom 
of  things  while  he  had  the  chance. 

"It  has  n't  gone  on  at  all.  He  has  never  said 
a  word  to  me,  and  I  have  always  obeyed  your 
will  in  these  matters;  but  you  can't  hide  love,  any 
more  than  you  can  hide  hate.  I  know  Ivory  loves 
me,  so  I'm  going  to  tell  him  that  my  duty  is 
done  here  and  I  am  ready  to  help  him." 

"  Coin'  to  throw  yourself  at  his  head,  be  you?  " 
sneered  the  Deacon.  "By  the  Lord,  I  don'  know 
where  you  two  girls  got  these  loose  ways  o'  think- 
in'  an'  actin'.  Mebbe  he  won't  take  you,  an'  then 
where '11  you  be?  You  won't  git  under  my  roof 
again  when  you  've  once  left  it,  you  can  make  up 
your  mind  to  that!" 

"If  you  have  any  doubts  about  Ivory's  being 
willing  to  take  me,  you  'd  better  drive  along  be 
hind  me  and  listen  while  I  ask  him." 

Waitstill's  tone  had  an  exultant  thrill  of  cer 
tainty  in  it.  She  threw  up  her  head,  glorying  in 
what  she  was  about  to  do.  If  she  laid  aside  her 
usual  reserve  and  voiced  her  thoughts  openly, 
it  was  not  in  the  hope  of  convincing  her  father, 
but  for  the  bliss  of  putting  them  into  words  and 
intoxicating  herself  by  the  sound  of  them. 

"Come  after  me  if  you  will,  father,  and  watch 
the  welcome  I  shall  get.  Oh!  I  have  no  fear  of 

308 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

being  turned  out  by  Ivory  Hoynton.  I  can  hardly 
wait  to  give  him  the  joy  I  shall  be  bringing!  It's 
selfish  to  rob  him  of  the  chance  to  speak  first,  but 
I'll  do  it!"  And  before  Deacon  Baxter  could 
cross  the  room,  AVaitstill  was  out  of  the  kitchen 
door  into  the  shed,  and  flying  down  Town-House 
Hill  like  an  arrow  shot  free  from  the  bow. 

The  Deacon  followed  close  behind,  hardly 
knowing  why,  but  he  was  no  match  for  the  girl, 
and  at  last  he  stood  helpless  on  the  steps  of  the 
shed,  shaking  his  fist  and  hurling  terrible  words 
after  her,  words  that  it  was  fortunate  for  hei 
peace  of  mind  she  could  not  hear. 

"A  curse  upon  you  both!"  he  cried  savagely. 
"Not  satisfied  with  disobeyin'  an'  defyin'  me, 
you've  put  me  to  shame,  an'  now  you'll  be  sett  in' 
the  neighbors  air'in'  me  an'  ruiniif  my  trade. 
If  you  was  free/in'  in  I  he  snow  I  would  if  I  heave 
a  blanket  to  you !  If  you  was  star vi if  I  would  n't 
fling  either  of  you  a  crust !  Never  shall  you  darken 
my  doors  aurain,  an'  never  shall  yon  git  a  penny 
o'  my  money,  not  if  I  have  to  throw  it  into  the 
river  to  spite  you!" 

Here  his  breath  failed,  and  he  stumbled  out 
into  the  barn  whimpering  between  his  broken 
Sentences  like  a  whipped  child. 

"  Here  I  am  with  nobody  to  milk,  nor  feed  the 
hens;  nobody  to  churn  to-morrow,  nor  do  the 

309 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

chores;  a  poor,  mis'able  creeter,  deserted  by  my 
children,  with  nobody  to  do  a  hand's  turn  'thout 
bein'  paid  for  every  step  they  take !  I  '11  give  'em 
what  they  deserve;  I  don'  know  what,  but  I'll 
be  even  with  'em  yet."  And  the  Deacon  set  his 
Baxter  jaw  in  a  way  that  meant  his  determina 
tion  to  stop  at  nothing. 


XXXI 

SENTRY    DUTY 

IVORY  BOYNTON  drove  home  from  the  woods  that 
same  afternoon  by  way  of  the  bridge,  in  order  to 
buy  some  provisions  at  the  brick  store.  When  he 
was  still  a  long  distance  from  the  bars  that  di 
vided  the  lane  from  the  highroad,  he  espied  a 
dark-clad  little  speck  he  knew  to  be  Rodman 
leaning  over  the  fence,  waiting  and  longing  afl 
usual  for  his  home-coming,  and  his  heart  warmed 
at  the  thought  of  the  boyish  welcome  that  ^never 
failed. 

The  sleigh  slipped  quickly  over  the  hard- 
packed,  shining  road,  and  the  bells  rang  merrily 
in  the  clear,  cold  air,  giving  out  a  joyous  sound 
that  had  no  echo  in  Ivory's  breast  that  day.  lie 
had  just  had  a  vision  of  happiness  through  an 
other  man's  eyes.  Was  he  always  to  stand  out 
side  the  banqueting-table,  he  wondered,  and  see 
others  feast  inir  while  he  hungered? 

Now  the  little  speck  hounded  from  the  fence, 
flew  down  the  road  to  meet  the  >l<-iurh.  and  jumped 
in  by  the  driver's  side. 

"I  knew  you'd  come  to-night,"  Rodman  cried 
eagerly.  "I  told  Aunt  Boynton  you'd  come.'* 

311 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"How  is  she,  well  as  common?" 

"No,  not  a  bit  well  since  yesterday  morning, 
but  Mrs.  Mason  says  it's  nothing  worse  than  a 
cold.  Mrs.  Mason  has  just  gone  home,  and  we've 
had  a  grand  house-cleaning  to-day.  She 's  washed 
and  ironed  and  baked,  and  we  've  put  Aunt  Boyn- 
ton  in  clean  sheets  and  pillow-cases,  and  her 
room's  nice  and  warm,  and  I  carried  the  cat  in 
and  put  it  on  her  bed  to  keep  her  company  while 
I  came  to  watch  for  you.  Aunt  Boynton  let  Mrs. 
Mason  braid  her  hair,  and  seemed  to  like  her 
brushing  it.  It's  been  dreadful  lonesome,  and  oh! 
I  am  glad  you  came  back,  Ivory.  Did  you  find 
any  more  spruce  gum  where  you  went  this  time?  " 

" Pounds  and  pounds,  Rod;  enough  to  bring  me 
in  nearly  a  hundred  dollars.  I  chanced  on  the 
greatest  place  I've  found  yet.  I  followed  the 
wake  of  an  old  whirlwind  that  had  left  long  fur 
rows  in  the  forest,  --  I've  told  you  how  the  thing 
works,  —  and  I  tracked  its  course  by  the  gum 
that  had  formed  wherever  the  trees  were 
wounded.  It's  hard,  lonely  work,  Rod,  but  it 
pays  well." 

"If  I  could  have  been  there,  maybe  we  could 
have  got  more.  I'm  good  at  shinning  up  trees." 

"  Yes,  sometime  we  '11  go  gum-picking  together. 
We'll  climb  the  trees  like  a  couple  of  cats,  and 
take  our  knives  and  scrape  off  the  precious  lumps 

312 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

that  arc  worth  so  much  money  to  the  druggists. 
You've  let  down  the  bars,  I  see." 

"Cause  I  knew  you'd  come  to-night,"  said 
Rodman.  "I  felt  it  in  my  bones.  We're  going 
to  have  a  splendid  supper." 

"Arc  we?  That's  good  news."  Ivory  tried  to 
make  his  tone  bright  and  interested,  though  his 
heart  was  like  a  lump  of  lead  in  his  breast.  "It's 
the  least  I  can  do  for  the  poor  little  chap,"  he 
thought,  "when  he  stays  as  caretaker  in  this 
lonely  spot.  -  -  I  wonder  if  I  had  n't  better  drive 
into  the  barn,  Rod,  and  leave  the  harness  on  Nick 
till  I  go  in  and  see  mother?  Guess  I  will." 

"She's  hot,  Aunt  Boynton  is,  hot  and  restless, 
but  Mrs.  Mason  thinks  that's  all." 

Ivory  found  his  mother  feverish,  and  her  eyes 
were  unnaturally  bright;  but  she  was  clear  in 
mind  and  cheerful,  too,  sitting  up  in  bed  to 
breathe  the  better,  while  the  Maltese  cat 
sn iii^lcd  under  her  arm  and  purred  peacefully. 

"The  eat  is  Rod's  idea,"  she  said  smilingly, 
but  in  a  very  weak  voice.  "He  is  a  great  nurse. 
I  should  never  have  thought  of  the  cat  myself, 
but  she  i^ives  me  more  comfort  than  all  the 
medicine/' 

Ivory  and  Rodman  drew  up  to  the  snpper- 
table,  already  set  in  the  kitchen,  but  before 
Ivory  took  his  seat  he  softly  closed  the  door  that 

818  ' 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

led  into  the  living-room.  They  ate  their  beans 
and  brown  bread  and  the  mince  pie  that  had  been 
the  "splendid"  feature  of  the  meal,  as  reported 
by  the  boy;  and  when  they  had  finished,  and 
Rodman  was  ?•  earing  the  table,  Ivory  walked  to 
the  window,  lighting  his  pipe  the  while,  and  stood 
soberly  looking  out  on  the  snowy  landscape.  One 
could  scarcely  tell  it  was  twilight,  with  such 
sweeps  of  whiteness  to  catch  every  gleam  of  the 
dying  day. 

"  Drop  work  a  minute  and  come  here,  Rod/'  he 
said  at  length.  "Can  you  keep  a  secret? " 

"'Course  I  can!  I'm  chock  full  of  'em  now, 
and  nobody  could  dig  one  of  'em  out  o'  me  with  a 
pickaxe!" 

"Oh,  well!  If  you're  full  you  naturally 
could  n't  hold  another!" 

"I  could  try  to  squeeze  it  in,  if  it's  a  nice  one," 
coaxed  the  boy. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you'll  think  it's  a  nice 
one,  Rod,  for  it  breaks  up  one  of  your  plans.  I  'm 
not  sure  myself  how  nice  it  is,  but  it's  a  very  l>i<j, 
unexpected,  startling  one.  What  do  you  think? 
Your  favorite  Patty  has  gone  and  got  married." 

"Patty!  Married!"  cried  Rod,  then  hastily 
putting  his  hand  over  his  mouth  to  hush  his  too- 
loud  speaking. 

"Yes,  she  and  Mark  Wilson  ran  away  last 
314 


THE  STORY  OP  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Monday,  drove  over  to  Allentown,  New  Hamp 
shire,  and  were  married  without  telling  a  soul. 
Deacon  Baxter  discovered  everything  this  after 
noon,  like  the  old  fox  that  he  is,  and  turned  Patty 
out  of  the  house." 

"Mean  old  skinflint!''  exclaimed  Rod  excit 
edly,  all  the  incipient  manhood  rising  in  his  ten- 
year-old  breast.  "Is  she  gone  to  live  with  the 
Wilsons?" 

"The  Wilsons  don't  know  yet  that  Mark  is 
married  to  her,  but  I  met  him  driving  like  Jehu, 
just  after  I  had  left  Patty,  and  told  him  every 
thing  that  had  happened,  and  did  my  best  to  cool 
him  down  and  keep  him  from  murdering  his  new 
father-in-law  by  showing  him  it  would  serve  no 
real  purpose  now." 

"Did  he  look  married,  and  all  different?" 
asked  Rod  curiously. 

"Yes,  he  did,  and  more  like  a  man  than  ever 
he  looked  before  in  his  life.  We  talked  e very- 
thing  over  together,  and  he  went  home  at  once 
to  break  the  news  to  his  family,  without  even 
lining  to  take  a  peep  at  Patty.  I  could  n't  bear 
to  have  them  meet  till  he  had  somet  \\miz  cheerful 
to  say  to  the  poor  little  soul.  When  I  met  her 
by  Uncle  Bart's  shop,  she  was  trudging  along 
in  the  snow  like  a  draggled  butterfly,  and  crying 
like  a  baby." 

315 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Sympathetic  tears  dimmed  Rodman's  eyes. 
"I  can't  bear  to  see  girls  cry,  Ivory.  I  just  can't 
bear  it,  especially  Patty." 

"Neither  can  I,  Rod.  I  came  pretty  near  wip 
ing  her  eyes,  but  pulled  up,  remembering  she 
was  n't  a  child  but  a  married  lady.  Well,  now 
we  come  to  the  point." 

"Is  n't  Patty's  being  married  the  point?" 

"No,  only  part  of  it.  Patty's  being  sent  away 
fronf  home  leaves  Waitstill  alone  with  the  Dea 
con,  do  you  see?  And  if  Patty  is  your  favorite, 
Waitstill  is  mine  —  I  might  as  well  own  up  to 
that." 

"She's  mine,  too,"  cried  Rod.  "They're  both 
my  favorites,  but  I  always  thought  Patty  was 
the  suitablest  for  me  to  marry  if  she'd  wait  for 
me.  Wraitstill  is  too  grand  for  a  boy!" 

"She's  too  grand  for  anybody,  Rod.  There 
is  n't  a  man  alive  that's  worthy  to  strap  on  her 
skates." 

"  Well,  she 's  too  grand  for  anybody  except  - 
and  here  Rod's  shy,  wistful  voice  trailed  off  into 
discreet  silence. 

"Now  I  had  some  talk  with  Patty,  and  she 
thinks  Waitstill  will  have  no  trouble  with  her 
father  just  at  present.  She  says  he  lavished  so 
much  rage  upon  her  that  there  '11  be  none  left  for 
anybody  else  for  a  day  or  two.  And,  moreover, 

316 


THE  STORY  OF  AY  AH  STILL  BAXTER 

that  IK*  will  never  dare  to  go  too  far  with  Wait- 
still,  because  she's  so  useful  to  him.  I'm  not 
afraid  of  his  beating  or  injuring  her  so  long  as  he 
keeps  his  sober  senses,  if  he's  ever  rightly  had 
any;  but  I  don't  like  to  think  of  his  upbraiding 
her  and  breaking  her  heart  with  his  cruel  talk 
just  after  she 's  lost  the  sister  that's  been  her  only 
companion."  And  Ivory's  hand  trembled  as  he 
filled  his  pipe.  He  had  no  confidant  but  this 
quaint,  tender-hearted,  old-fashioned  little  lad, 
to  whom  he  had  grown  to  speak  his  mind  as  if 
he  were  a  man  of  his  own  age;  and  Rod,  in  the 
same  way,  had  gradually  learned  to  understand 
and  sympathize. 

"It 's  dreadful  lonesome  on  Town-House  Hill,"1 
said  the  boy  in  a  hushed  tone. 

"Dreadful  lonesome,"  echoed  Ivory  with  a 
sigh;  "and  I  don't  dare  leave  mother  until  her 
fever  dies  down  a  bit  and  she  sleeps.  Now  do 
you  remember  the  night  that  she  was  taken  ill, 
and  we  shared  the  watch?" 

Rodman  held  his  breath.  "Do  you  mean 
you're  ir<>inur  to  lei  me  help  just  as  if  I  was  bi^r  " 
he  asked,  speaking  through  a  great  lump  in  his 
throat. 

4 There  are  only  two  of  us,  Rod.  You're 
rather  young  for  this  piece  of  work,  but  you're 
trusty  —  you're  trusty!" 

817 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Am  I  to  keep  watch  on  the  Deacon?" 
*  That's  it,  and  this  is  my  plan:  Nick  will  have 
had  his  feed ;  you  're  to  drive  to  the  bridge  when 
it  gets  a  little  darker  and  hitch  in  Uncle  Bart's 
horse-shed,  covering  Nick  well.  You're  to  go 
into  the  brick  store,  and  while  you're  getting 
some  groceries  wrapped  up,  listen  to  anything 
the  men  say,  to  see  if  they  know  what's  hap 
pened.  When  you  've  hung  about  as  long  as  you 
dare,  leave  your  bundle  and  say  you'll  call  in 
again  for  it.  Then  see  if  Baxter's  store  is  open.  I 
don't  believe  it  will  be,  and  if  it  is  n't,  look  for  a 
light  in  his  kitchen  window,  and  prowl  about  till 
you  know  that  Waitstill  and  the  Deacon  have 
gone  up  to  their  bedrooms.  Then  go  to  Uncle 
Bart's  and  find  out  if  Patty  is  there." 

Rod's  eyes  grew  bigger  and  bigger:  "Shall  I 
talk  to  her?"  he  asked;  "and  what '11  I  say?" 

"No,  just  ask  if  she's  there.  If  she's  gone, 
Mark  has  made  it  right  with  his  family  and  taken 
her  home.  If  she  has  n't,  why,  God  knows  how 
that  matter  will  be  straightened  out.  Anyhow, 
she  has  a  husband  now,  and  he  seems  to  value 
her;  and  Waitstill  is  alone  on  the  top  of  that 
wind-swept  hill!" 

"I'll  go.  I'll  remember  everything,"  cried 
Rodman,  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight  at  the 
responsibilities  Ivory  was  heaping  upon  him. 

318 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Don't  stay  beyond  eight  o'clock;  but  come 
back  and  tell  me  everything  you've  learned. 
Then,  if  mother  grows  no  worse,  I'll  walk  back 
to  Uncle  Bart's  shop  and  spend  the  night  there, 
just  —  just  to  be  near,  that's  all." 

'You  couldn't  hear  Waitstill,  even  if  she 
called,"  Rod  said. 

"Couldn't  I?  A  man's  ears  are  very  sharp 
under  certain  circumstances.  I  believe  if  Wait- 
still  needed  help  I  could  hear  her  —  breathe! 
Besides,  I  shall  be  up  and  down  the  hill  till  I 
know  all's  well;  and  at  sunrise  I'll  go  up  and 
hide  behind  some  of  Baxter's  buildings  till  I  see 
him  get  his  breakfast  and  go  to  the  store.  Now 
wash  your  dishes";  and  Ivory  caught  up  his  cap 
from  a  hook  behind  the  door. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  barn?"  asked  Rodman* 

"No,  only  down  to  the  gate  for  a  minute. 
Mark  said  that  if  he  had  a  good  chance  he'd  send 
a  boy  with  a  note,  and  get  him  to  put  it  under 
the  stone  gate-post.  It's  too  soon  to  expect  it, 
perhaps,  but  I  can't  seem  to  keep  still." 

Rodman  tied  a  uin^hum  apron  round  his 
waist,  carried  the  tea-kettle  to  the  sink,  and 
poured  the  dishpan  full  of  boiling  water;  then 
dipped  the  cups  and  plates  in  and  out,  wiped 
them  and  replaced  them  on  the  table;  gave  the 
bean-platter  a  special  polish,  and  set  the  half 

319 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

mince  pie  and  the  butter-dish  in  the  cellar- 
way. 

"A  boy  has  to  do  most  everything  in  this 
family!"  he  sighed  to  himself.  "I  don't  mind 
washing  dishes,  except  the  nasty  frying-pan  and 
the  sticky  bean-pot;  but  what  I'm  going  to  do 
to-night  is  different."  Here  he  glowed  and 
tingled  with  anticipation.  "I  know  what  they 
call  it  in  the  story-books  —  it's  sentry  duty; 
and  that's  braver  work  for  a  boy  than  dish 
washing!" 

Which,  however,  depends  a  good  deal  upon 
circumstances,  and  somewhat  on  the  point  of 
view. 


XXXII 

THE    HOUSE   OF   AARON 

A  FEELING  that  the  day  was  to  bring  great 
things  had  dawned  upon  Waitstill  when  she 
woke  that  morning,  and  now  it  was  coming  true. 

Climbing  Saco  Hill  was  like  climbing  the  hill 
of  her  dreams;  life  and  love  beckoned  to  her 
across  the  snowy  slopes. 

At  rest  about  Patty's  future,  though  troubled 
as  to  her  sorry  plight  at  the  moment,  she  was 
conscious  chiefly  of  her  new- born  freedom.  She 
revelled  in  the  keen  air  that  tingled  against  her 
cheek,  and  drew  in  fresh  hope  with  every  breath. 
As  she  trod  the  shining  pathway  she  was  full  of 
expectancy,  her  eyes  dancing,  her  heart  as  buoy 
ant  as  her  step.  Not  a  vestige  of  confusion  or 
uncertainty  vexed  her  mind.  She  knew  Ivory 
for  her  true  mate,  and  if  the  way  to  him  took 
her  through  dark  places  it  was  lighted  by  a 
steadfast  beacon  of  love. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  she  turned  the  corner 
breathlessly,  and  faced  the  length  of  road  that 
led  to  the  Hoynton  farm.  Mrs.  Mason's  house 
was  beyond,  and  oh,  how  she  hoped  that  Ivory 
would  be  at  home,  and  that  >he  need  not  wait 

321 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

another  day  to  tell  him  all,  and  claim  the  gift 
she  knew  was  hers  before  she  asked  it.  She  might 
not  have  the  same  exaltation  to-morrow,  for  now 
there  were  no  levels  in  her  heart  and  soul.  She 
had  a  sense  of  mounting  from  height  to  height 
and  lighting  fires  on  every  peak  of  her  being.  She 
took  no  heed  of  the  road  she  was  travelling; 
she  was  conscious  only  of  a  wonderful  inward 
glow. 

The  house  was  now  in  sight,  and  a  tall  figure 
was  issuing  from  the  side  door,  putting  on  a  fur 
cap  as  it  came  out  on  the  steps  and  down  the 
lane.  Ivory  was  at  home,  then,  and,  best  of  all, 
he  was  unconsciously  coming  to  meet  her  - 
although  their  hearts  had  been  coming  to  meet 
each  other,  she  thought,  ever  since  they  first 
began  to  beat. 

As  she  neared  the  bars  she  called  Ivory's  name. 
His  hands  were  in  the  pockets  of  his  great-coat, 
and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground.  Sombre 
he  was,  distinctly  sombre,  in  mien  and  gait;  could 
she  make  him  smile  and  flush  and  glow,  as  she 
was  smiling  and  flushing  and  glowing?  As  he 
heard  her  voice  he  raised  his  head  quickly  and 
uncomprehendingly. 

"Don't  come  any  nearer,"  she  said,  "until  I 
have  told  you  something!" 

His  mind  had  been  so  full  of  her  that  the  sight 
322 


THE  STORY  or  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

of  her  in  the  flesh,  standing  twenty  feet  away, 
bewildered  him. 

She  took  a  few  steps  nearer  the  gate,  near 
enough  now  for  him  to  see  her  rosy  face  framed 
in  a  blue  hood,  and  to  catch  the  brightness  of  her 
eyes  under  their  lovely  lashes.  Ordinarily  they 
were  cool  and  limpid  and  grave,  Waitstill's  eyes; 
now  a  sunbeam  danced  in  each  of  them.  And 
her  lips,  almost  always  tightly  closed,  as  if  she 
were  holding  back  her  natural  speech,  —  her  lips 
were  red  and  parted,  and  the  soul  of  her,  free  at 
last,  shone  through  her  face,  making  it  luminous 
with  a  new  beauty. 

"I  have  left  home  for  good  and  all,"  she  said. 
"I'll  tell  you  more  of  this  later  on,  but  I  have 
left  my  father's  house  with  nothing  to  my  name 
but  the  clothes  I  stand  in.  I  am  going  to  look  for 
work  in  the  mills  to-morrow,  but  I  stopped  here  to 
say  that  I  'm  ready  to  marry  you  whenever  you 
want  me  —  if  you  do  want  me." 

Ivory  was  bewildered,  indeed,  but  not  so 
much  so  that  he  failed  to  apprehend,  and  in 
stantly,  too,  the  real  significance  of  this  speeeli. 
He  took  a  couple  of  lonu  st  rides,  and  before  \Yait- 
still  had  any  idea  of  his  intentions  he  vaulted 
over  the  bars  and  gathered  her  in  his  arms. 

"Never  shall  you  go  to  the  mills,  never  shall 
you  leave  my  sight  for  a  single  hour  again,  my 

323 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

one-woman-in-all-the-world !  Come  to  me,  to  be 
loved  and  treasured  all  your  life  long!  I've 
worshipped  you  ever  since  I  was  a  boy;  I  've  kept 
my  heart  swept  and  garnished  for  you  and  no 
other,  hoping  I  might  win  you  at  last." 

How  glorious  to  hear  all  this  delicious  poetry 
of  love,  and  to  feel  Ivory's  arms  about  her,  mak 
ing  the  dream  seem  surer! 

"Oh,  how  like  you  to  shorten  the  time  of  my 
waiting:''  he  went  on,  his  words  fairly  chasing 
one  another  in  their  eagerness  to  be  spoken. 
"How  like  you  to  count  on  me,  to  guess  my  hun 
ger  for  your  love,  to  realize  the  chains  that  held 
me  back,  and  break  them  yourself  with  your 
own  dear,  womanly  hands!  How  like  you,  oh, 
wonderful  Waitstill!" 

Ivory  went  on  murmuring  phrases  that  had 
been  lying  in  his  heart  unsaid  for  years,  scarcely 
conscious  of  what  he  was  saying,  realizing  only 
that  the  miracle  of  miracles  had  happened. 

Waitstill,  for  her  part,  was  almost  dumb  with 
joy  to  be  lying  so  close  to  his  heart  that  she  could 
hear  it  beating;  to  feel  the  passionate  tenderness 
of  his  embrace  and  his  kiss  falling  upon  her  hair. 

"  I  did  not  know  a  girl  could  be  so  happy ! "  she 
whispered.  "I've  dreamed  of  it,  but  it  was 
nothing  like  this.  I  am  all  a-tremble  with  it." 

Ivory  held  her  off  at  arm's  length  for  a 
324 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

moment,  reluctantly,  grudgingly.  "You  took  me 
fairly  off  my  foot,  dearest,"  he  said,  "and  I 
forgot  everything  but  the  one  supreme  fact  you 
\\vre  telling  me.  Had  I  been  on  guard  I  should 
have  told  you  that  I  am  no  worthy  husband  for 
you,  Waitstill.  I  have  n't  enough  to  offer  such  a 
<jirl  as  you." 

"  You  're  too  late,  Ivory !  You  showed  me  your 
heart  first,  and  now  you  are  searching  your  mind 
for  bugbears  to  frighten  me." 

"I  am  a  poor  man." 

"No  girl  could  be  poorer  than  I  am." 

''After  what  you've  endured,  you  ought  to 
have  rest  and  comfort." 

"I  shall  have  both  —  in  you!"  Tin's  with  eyes, 
all  wet,  lifted  to  Ivory's. 

"My  mother  is  a  great  burden  —  a  very  dear 
and  precious,  but  a  grievous  one." 

"She  needs  a  daughter.  It  is  in  such  things 
that  I  shall  l>e  your  helpmate." 

"Will  not  the  hoy  trouble  you  and  add  to  your 

.  . . 
car« 

"Rod?  I  love  him;  he  shall  be  my  little 
brother." 

"What  tf  my  father  Were  not  really  dead'  -I 
think  of  this  sometimes  in  the  mVht!  -  What  if 
he  should  wander  back,  broken  in  spirit,  feeble 
in  body,  empty  in  piir>er" 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"I  do  not  come  to  you  free  of  burdens.  If  my 
father  is  deserted  by  all,  I  must  see  that  he  is 
made  comfortable.  He  never  treated  me  like  a 
daughter,  but  I  acknowledge  his  claim." 

"Mine  is  such  a  gloomy  house!" 

"Will  it  be  gloomy  when  I  am  in  it? "and 
Waitstill,  usually  so  grave,  laughed  at  last  like  a 
care-free  child. 

Ivory  felt  himself  hidden  in  the  beautiful  shel 
ter  of  the  girl's  love.  It  was  dark  now,  or  as  dark 
as  the  night  ever  is  that  has  moonlight  and  snow. 
He  took  Waitstill  in  his  arms  again  reverently, 
and  laid  his  cheek  against  her  hair.  "I  worship 
God  as  well  as  I  know  how,"  he  whispered; 
"worship  him  as  the  maker  of  this  big  heaven 
and  earth  that  surrounds  us.  But  I  worship  you 
as  the  maker  of  my  little  heaven  and  earth,  and 
my  heart  is  saying  its  prayers  to  you  at  this  very 
moment!" 

"  Hush,  my  dear !  hush !  and  don't  value  me  too 
much,  or  I  shall  lose  my  head  -  - 1  that  have 
never  known  a  sweet  word  in  all  my  life  save 
those  that  my  sister  has  given  me.  —  I  must  tell 
you  all  about  Patty  now." 

"I  happen  to  know  more  than  you,  dear.  I 
met  her  at  the  bridge  when  I  was  coming  home 
from  the  woods,  and  I  saw  her  safely  to  Uncle 
Bart's  door.  -- 1  don't  know  why  we  speak  of  it 

326 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

as  Uncle  Bart's  when  it  is  really  Aunt  Abby's! — I 
nrxt  met  Mark,  who  had  fairly  flown  from  Bridg- 
ton  on  the  wings  of  love,  arriving  hours  ahead  of 
time.  I  managed  to  keep  him  from  avenging  the 
insults  heaped  upon  his  bride,  and  he  has  driven 
to  the  Mills  to  confide  in  his  father  and  mother. 
By  this  time  Patty  is  probably  the  centre  of 
the  family  group,  charming  them  all  as  is  her 
custom." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  Mark  is  at  home!  Now  I 
can  be  at  rest  about  Patty.  And  I  must  not  lin 
ger  another  moment,  for  I  am  going  to  ask  Mrs. 
Mason  to  keep  me  overnight,"  cried  Waitstill, 
bethinking  herself  suddenly  of  time  and  place. 

"I  will  take  you  there  myself  and  explain 
everything.  And  the  moment  I  Ve  lighted  a  fire 
in  Mrs.  Mason's  best  bedroom  and  settled  you 
there,  what  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  do?  I 
shall  drive  to  the  town  clerk's  house,  and  if  he  is 
in  bed,  rout  him  out  and  have  the  notice  of  our 
intended  marriage  posted  in  a  public  place  ac 
cording  to  law.  Perhaps  I  shall  save  a  day  out  of 
the  fourteen  I  Ve  got  to  wait  for  my  wife.  '  Mills,' 
indeed!  I  wonder  at  you,  Waitstill!  As  if  Mr-. 
Mason's  house  was  not  far  enough  away,  without 
your  spoakin^  of  'mills." 

"I  only  suggested  mills  in  case  you  did  not 
want  to  marry  me,"  said  Waitstill. 

327 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Walk  up  to  the  door  with  me,"  begged  Ivory. 
'The  horse  is  all  harnessed,  and  Rod  will  slip  him 
into  the  sleigh  in  a  jiffy." 

"Oh,  Ivory!  do  you  realize  what  this  means?" 

-  and  Waitstill  clung  to  his  arm  as  they  went 

up  the  lane  together-    "that  whatever  sorrow, 

whatever  hardship  comes  to  us,  neither  of  us  will 

ever  have  to  bear  it  alone  again?" 

"I  believe  I  do  realize  it  as  few  men  could,  for 
never  in  my  five-and-twenty  years  have  I  had  a 
human  creature  to  whom  I  could  pour  myself 
out,  in  whom  I  could  really  confide,  with  whom  I 
could  take  counsel.  You  can  guess  what  it  will 
be  to  have  a  comprehending  woman  at  my  side. 
Shall  we  tell  my  mother?  Do  say  *yes '  5  I  believe 
she  will  understand.  —  Rod,  Rod!  come  and  see 
who's  stepping  in  the  door  this  very  minute!" 

Rodman  was  up  in  his  bedroom,  attiring  him 
self  elaborately  for  sentry  duty.  His  delight  at 
seeing  Waitstill  was  perhaps  slightly  tempered 
by  the  thought  that  flashed  at  once  through  his 
mind,  —  that  if  she  was  safe,  he  would  not  be 
required  to  stand  guard  in  the  snow  for  hours 
as  he  had  hoped.  But  this  grief  passed  when  he 
fully  realized  what  WaitstilFs  presence  at  the 
farm  at  this  unaccustomed  hour  really  mcjinl. 
After  he  had  been  told,  he  hung  about  her  like 
the  child  that  he  was,  —  though  he  had  a  bit  of 

328 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

the  hero  in  him,  at  bottom,  too, — embracing  her 
waist  fondly,  and  bristling  with  wondering  ques 
tions. 

44  Is  she  really  going  to  stay  \vith  us  for  always, 
Ivory?"  he  asked. 

"Every  day  and  all  the  days;  every  night  and 
all  the  nights.  '  Praise  God  from  whom  all 
blessings  flow!'"  said  Ivory,  taking  off  his  fur 
cap  and  opening  the  door  of  the  living-room. 
"But  we've  got  to  wait  for  her  a  whole  fort 
night,  Rod.  Is  n't  that  a  ridiculous  snail  of  a 
law?" 

"Patty  did  n't  wait  a  fortnight." 

"Patty  never  waited  for  anything,"  Ivory 
responded  with  a  smile;  "but  she  had  a  good 
reason,  and,  alas!  we  have  n't,  or  they'll  say  that 
we  haven't.  And  I  am  very  grateful  to  the  same 
dear  little  Patty,  for  when  she  got  herself  a 
husband  she  found  me  a  wife!" 

Hodman  did  not  wholly  understand  this,  but 
felt  that  there  were  many  mysteries  attending 
the  love  ail'airs  of  grown-up  people  that  were  too 
complicated  for  him  to  grasp;  and  it  did  not 
seem  to  be  just  the  ri^ht  moment  for  quest  ions. 

Waitstill  and  Ivory  went  into  Mrs.  Hoynlon's 
room  quietly,  hand  in  hand,  and  when  she 
\VaitstIll  she  rai-ed   hers"lf  from  her  pillow  and 
held  out  her  arms  with  a  soft  cry  of  delight. 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"I  have  n't  had  you  for  so  long,  so  long!"  she 
said,  touching  the  girl's  cheek  with  her  frail 
hand. 

'You  are  going  to  have  me  every  day  now, 
dear,"  whispered  Waitstill,  with  a  sob  in  her 
voice;  for  she  saw  a  change  in  the  face,  a  new 
transparency,  a  still  more  ethereal  look  than  had 
been  there  before. 

"Every  day?"  she  repeated,  longingly. 

Waitstill  took  off  her  hood,  and  knelt  on  the 
floor  beside  the  bed,  hiding  her  face  in  the  coun 
terpane  to  conceal  the  tears. 

"She  is  coming  to  live  with  us,  dear.  —  Come 
in,  Rod,  and  hear  me  tell  her.  -  -  Waitstill  is 
coming  to  live  with  us:  isn't  that  a  beautiful 
thing  to  happen  to  this  dreary  house?"  asked 
Ivory,  bending  to  take  his  mother's  hand. 

"Don't  you  remember  what  you  thought  the 
first  time  I  ever  came  here,  mother?"  and  Wait- 
still  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Boynton 
with  swimming  eyes  and  lips  that  trembled. 
"Ivory  is  making  it  all  come  true,  and  I  shall  be 
your  daughter!" 

Mrs.  Boynton  sank  farther  back  into  her 
pillows,  and  closing  her  eyes,  gave  a  long  sigh  of 
infinite  content.  Her  voice  was  so  faint  that  they 
had  to  stoop  to  catch  the  words,  and  Ivory, 
feeling  the  strange  benediction  that  seemed  to 

330 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

be  passing  from  his  mother's  spirit  to  theirs,  took 
Rod's  hand  and  knelt  beside  Waitstill. 

The  verse  of  a  favorite  psalm  was  running 
through  Lois  Boynton's  mind,  and  in  a  moment 
the  words  came  clearly,  as  she  opened  her  eyes, 
lifted  her  hands,  and  touched  the  bowed  heads. 
"Let  the  house  of  Aaron  now  say  that  his  mercy 
endureth  forever!"  she  said,  slowly  and  rever 
ently;  and  Ivory,  with  all  his  heart,  responded, 
"Amen!" 


XXXIII 

AARON'S  ROD 

"IVORY!  IVORY!" 

Ivory  stirred  in  a  sleep  that  had  been  troubled 
by  too  great  happiness.  To  travel  a  dreary  path 
alone,  a  path  leading  seemingly  nowhere,  and 
then  suddenly  to  have  a  companion  by  one's  side, 
the  very  sight  of  whom  enchanted  the  eye,  the 
very  touch  of  whom  delighted  the  senses  —  what 
joy  unspeakable!  Who  could  sleep  soundly  when 
wakefulness  brought  a  train  of  such  blissful 
thoughts? 

"Ivory!   Ivory!" 

He  was  fully  awake  now,  for  he  knew  his 
mother's  voice.  In  all  the  years,  ever  thoughtful 
of  his  comfort  and  of  the  constant  strain  upon 
his  strength,  Lois  had  never  wakened  her  son 
at  night. 

"Coming,  mother,  coming!"  he  said,  when  he 
realized  she  was  calling  him;  and  hastily  drawing 
on  some  clothing,  for  the  night  was  bitterly  cold, 
he  came  out  of  his  room  and  saw  his  mother 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairwray,  with  a 
lighted  candle  in  her  hand. 

"Can  you  come  down,  Ivory?  It  is  a  strange 
332 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

hour  to  call  you  but  I  have  something  to  tell 
you;  something  I  have  been  piecing  together 
for  weeks;  something  I  have  just  clearly  remem 
bered." 

44 If  it's  something  that  won't  keep  till  morn 
ing,  mother,  you  creep  back  into  bed  and  we'll 
hear  it  comfortably,"  he  said,  coming  downstairs 
and  leading  her  to  her  room.  "I'll  smooth  the 
covers,  so;  beat  up  the  pillows, --there,  and 
throw  another  log  on  the  sitting-room  fire.  Now, 
what's  the  matter?  Could  n't  you  sleep?" 

"All  summer  long  I  have  been  trying  to  re 
member  something;  something  untrue  that  you 
have  been  believing,  some  falsehood  for  which  I 
was  responsible.  I  have  pursued  and  pursued  it, 
but  it  has  always  escaped  me.  Once  it  was  clear 
as  daylight,  for  Rodman  read  me  from  the  Bible 
a  plain  answer  to  all  the  questions  that  tortured 


me." 


'That  must  have  been  the  night  that  she 
fainted,"  thought  Ivory. 

"When  I  auoke  next  morning  from  my  long 
sleep,  the  old  pn/zle  had  come  back,  a  thousand 
times  worse  than  before,  for  then  I  knew  that  I 
had  held  the  clue  in  my  own  hand  and  had  lost  it. 
Now,  praise  (iod  !  I  know  the  truth,  and  you,  the 
only  one  to  whom  I  can  tell  it,  are  close  at  h.md." 

Ivory  looked  at  his  mother  and  saw  that  I  lie 
333 


THE  STORY  OP  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

veil  that  had  separated  them  mentally  seemed  to 
have  vanished  in  the  night  that  had  passed. 
Often  and  often  it  had  blown  away,  as  it  were, 
for  the  fraction  of  a  moment  and  then  blown 
back  again.  Now  her  eyes  met  his  with  an  alto 
gether  new  clearness  that  startled  him,  while  her 
breath  came  with  ease  and  she  seemed  stronger 
than  for  many  days. 

"You  remember  the  winter  I  was  here  at  the 
farm  alone,  when  you  were  at  the  Academy?" 

;<  Yes;  it  was  then  that  I  came  home  and  found 
you  so  terribly  ill.  Do  you  think  we  need  go  back 
to  that  old  time  now,  mother  dear?" 

:<  Yes,  I  must,  I  must!  One  morning  I  received 
a  strange  letter,  bearing  no  signature,  in  which 
the  writer  said  that  if  I  wished  to  see  my  husband 
I  had  only  to  go  to  a  certain  address  in  Brent- 
ville,  New  Hampshire.  The  letter  went  on  to 
say  that  Mr.  Aaron  Boynton  was  ill  and  longed 
for  nothing  so  much  as  to  speak  with  me;  but 
there  were  reasons  why  he  did  not  wish  to  return 
to  Edgewood,  —  would  I  come  to  him  without 
delay." 

Ivory  now  sat  straight  in  his  chair  and  listened 
keenly,  feeling  that  this  was  to  be  no  vague,  un 
certain,  and  misleading  memory,  but  something 
true  and  tangible. 

"The  letter  excited  me  greatly  after  your 
334 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

father's  long  absence  and  silence.  I  knew  it  could 
mean  nothing  but  sorrow,  but  although  I  was 
half  ill  at  the  time,  my  plain  duty  was  to  go,  so  I 
thought,  and  go  without  making  any  explanation 
in  the  village." 

All  this  was  new  to  Ivory  and  he  hung  upon  his 
mother's  words,  dreading  yet  hoping  for  the  light 
that  they  might  shed  upon  the  past. 

"I  arrived  at  Brentville  quite  exhausted  with 
the  journey  and  weighed  down  by  anxiety  and 
dread.  I  found  the  house  mentioned  in  the  let 
ter  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  knocked 
at  the  door.  A  common,  hard-featured  woman 
answered  the  knock  and,  seeming  to  expect  me, 
ushered  me  in.  I  do  not  remember  the  room;  I 
remember  only  a  child  leaning  patiently  against 
the  window-sill  looking  out  into  the  dark,  and 
that  the  place  was  bare  and  cheerless. 

"'I  came  to  call  upon  Mr.  Aaron  Boynton,'  I 
said,  with  my  heart  sinking  lower  and  lower  as  I 
spoke.  The  woman  opened  a  door  into  the  next 
room  and  when  I  walked  in,  instead  of  seeing 
your  father,  I  confronted  a  haggard,  death- 
stricken  young  woman  sitting  up  in  bed,  her 
ureat  eyes  bright  with  pain,  her  lips  as  white  as 
her  hollow  cheeks,  and  her  long,  black  hair 
streaming  over  the  pillow.  The  very  sight  of  her 
struck  a  knell  to  the  little  hope  I  had  of  soothing 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

your  father's  sick  bed  and  forgiving  him  if  he 
had  done  me  any  wrong. 

"'Well,  you  came,  as  I  thought  you  would,' 
said  the  girl,  looking  me  over  from  head  to  foot 
in  a  way  that  somehow  made  me  burn  with 
shame.  'Now  sit  down  in  that  chair  and  hear 
wrhat  I  Ve  got  to  say  while  I  've  got  the  strength 
to  say  it.  I  have  n't  the  time  nor  the  desire  to 
put  a  gloss  on  it.  Aaron  Boynton  is  n't  here,  as 
you  plainly  see,  but  that's  not  my  fault,  for  he 
belongs  here  as  much  as  anywhere,  though  he 
would  n't  have  much  interest  in  a  dying  woman. 
If  you  have  suffered  on  account  of  him,  so  have  I, 
and  you  have  n't  had  this  pain  boring  into  you 
and  eating  your  life  away  for  months,  as  I  have/ 

"  I  pitied  her,  she  seemed  so  distraught,  but  I 
was  in  terror  of  her  all  the  same,  and  urged  her 
to  tell  her  story  calmly  and  I  would  do  my  best 
to  hear  it  in  the  same  way. 

"'Calm,'  she  exclaimed,  'with  this  agony  tear 
ing  me  to  pieces!  Well,  to  make  beginning  and 
end  in  one,  Aaron  Boynton  was  my  husband  for 
three  years.' 

"  I  caught  hold  of  the  chair  to  keep  myself  from 
falling  and  cried:  'I  do  not  believe  it!'  'Believe 
it  or  not,'  she  answered  scornfully,  'it  makes 
no  difference  to  me,  but  I  can  give  you  twenty 
proofs  in  as  many  seconds.  We  met  at  a  Coch- 

336 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

rane  meeting  and  he  chose  me  from  all  the 
others  as  his  true  wife.  For  two  years  we  trav 
elled  together,  but  long  before  they  came  to  an 
end  there  was  no  happiness  for  either  of  us.  He 
hnd  a  conscience  —  not  much  of  a  one,  but  just 
enough  to  keep  him  miserable.  At  last  I  felt  he 
was  not  believing  the  doctrines  he  preached  and 
I  caught  him  trying  to  get  news  of  you  and  your 
boy,  just  because  you  were  out  of  reach,  and  neg 
lecting  my  boy  and  me,  who  had  given  up  every 
thing  to  wander  with  him  and  live  on  whatever 
the  brethren  and  sisters  chose  to  give  us.' 

"So  there  was  a  child,  a  boy/  I  gasped.  'Did 
—  did  he  live? '  'He's  in  the  next  room,'  she  an 
swered,  'and  il's  him  I  brought  you  here  for. 
Aaron  Boynton  has  served  us  both  the  same.  He 
left  you  for  me  and  me  for  Heaven  knows  who. 
If  I  could  live  I  would  n't  ask  any  favors,  of  you 
least  of  all,  but  I  have  n't  a  penny  in  the  wrorld, 
though  I  shan't  need  one  very  long.  My  friend 
that's  nursing  me  has  n't  a  roof  to  her  head  and 
she  would  n't  share  it  with  the  boy  if  she  had  — 
she's  a  bigoted  Orthodox/ 

'Hut  what  do  you  expect  me  to  do?'  I  asked 
angrily,  for  she  was  stubbing  me  with  every  word. 

'The  boy  is  your  husband's  child  and  he 
always  represented  yon  as  a  saint  upon  earth.  1 
expect  you  to  take  him  home  and  provide  for 

337 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

him.  He  does  n't  mean  very  much  to  me  --just 
enough  so  that  I  don't  relish  his  going  to  the 
poorhouse,  that's  all.' 

"'He'll  go  to  something  very  like  that  if  he 
comes  to  mine,'  I  said. 

" '  Don't  worry  me  with  talk,  for  I  can't  stand 
it,'  she  wailed,  clutching  at  her  nightgown  and 
flinging  back  her  hair.  '  Either  you  take  the  child 
or  I  send  somebody  to  Edgewood  with  him, 
somebody  to  tell  the  whole  story.  Some  of  the 
Cochranites  can  support  him  if  you  won't;  or,  at 
the  worst,  Aaron  Boynton's  town  can  take  care 
of  his  son.  The  doctor  has  given  me  two  days  to 
live.  If  it 's  a  minute  longer  I ' ve  warned  him  and 
I  warn  you,  that  I'll  end  it  myself;  and  if  you 
don't  take  the  boy  I'll  do  the  same  for  him. 
He 's  a  good  sight  better  off  dead  than  knocking 
about  the  world  alone ;  he 's  innocent  and  there 's 
no  sense  in  his  being  punished  for  the  sins  of 
other  folks.'" 

"I  see  it  all !  Why  did  I  never  think  of  it  before; 
my  poor,  poor  Rod!"  said  Ivory,  clenching  his 
hands  and  burying  his  head  in  them. 

"Don't  grieve,  Ivory;  it  has  all  turned  out  so 
much  better  than  we  could  have  hoped;  just 
listen  to  the  end.  She  was  frightful  to  hear  and 
to  look  at,  the  girl  was,  though  all  the  time  I 
could  feel  that  she  must  have  had  a  gipsy  beauty 

338 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  vigor  that  answered  to  something  in  your 
father. 

"'Go  along  out  now,'  she  cried  suddenly.  'I 
can't  stand  anybody  near.  The  doctor  never 
gives  me  half  enough  medicine  and  for  the  hour 
before  he  comes  I  fairly  die  for  lack  of  it  — 
though  little  he  cares!  Go  upstairs  and  have 
your  sleep  and  to-morrow  you  can  make  up  your 
mind/ 

'You  don't  leave  me  much  freedom  to  do 
that,'  I  tried  to  answer;  but  she  interrupted  me, 
rocking  her  body  to  and  fro.  *  Neither  of  us  will 
ever  see  Aaron  Boynton  again;  you  no  more  than 
I.  He 's  in  the  West,  and  a  man  with  two  families 
and  no  means  of  providing  for  them  does  n't 
come  back  where  he's  known.  —  Come  and  take 
IK T  away,  Eliza!  Take  her  away,  quick!'  she 
called. 

"I  stumbled  out  of  the  room  and  the  woman 
waved  me  upstairs.  'You  mustn't  mind  Hetty,' 
she  apologised;  'she  never  had  a  good  disposition 
at  the  best,  but  she's  frantic  with  the  pain  now, 
and  good  reason,  too.  It's  about  over  and  1  '11  be 
thankful  when  it  is.  You'd  better  swallow  the 
shame  and  take  the  child;  I  can't  and  won't  have 
him  and  it  '11  be  easy  enough  for  you  to  s<iy  he 
belongs  to  some  of  your  own  folks.' 

''By   this   time   I   was  mentally   bewildered 
339 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

When  the  iron  first  entered  my  soul,  when  I  first 
heard  the  truth  about  your  father,  at  that  mo 
ment  my  mind  gave  way  -- 1  know  it  now." 

"Poor,  poor  mother!  My  poor,  gentle  little 
mother!"  murmured  Ivory  brokenly,  as  he 
stroked  her  hand. 

"Don't  cry,  my  son;  it  is  all  past;  the  sorrow 
and  the  bitterness  and  the  struggle.  I  will  just 
finish  the  story  and  then  we  '11  close  the  book  for 
ever.  The  woman  gave  me  some  bread  and  tea, 
and  I  flung  myself  on  the  bed  without  undressing. 
I  don't  know  how  long  afterward  it  was,  but  the 
door  opened  and  a  little  boy  stole  in ;  a  sad,  strange, 
dark-eyed  little  boy  who  said : '  Can  I  sleep  up  here? 
Mother 's  screaming  and  I  'm  afraid.'  He  climbed 
on  to  the  couch.  I  covered  him  with  a  blanket, 
and  I  soon  heard  his  deep  breathing.  But  later  in 
the  night,  when  I  must  have  fallen  asleep  my 
self,  I  suddenly  awoke  and  felt  him  lying  be 
side  me.  He  had  dragged  the  blanket  along  and 
crept  up  on  the  bed  to  get  close  to  my  side  for  the 
warmth  I  could  give,  or  the  comfort  of  my  near 
ness.  The  touch  of  him  almost  broke  my  heart; 
I  could  not  push  the  little  creature  away  when  he 
was  lying  there  so  near  and  warm  and  confiding 
-  he,  all  unconscious  of  the  agony  his  mere 
existence  wras  to  me.  I  must  have  slept  again  and 
when  the  day  broke  I  was  alone.  I  thought  the 

340 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTKH 

presence*  of  the  child  in  the  night  was  a  dream  and 
I  could  not  remember  where  I  was,  nor  why  I  was 
there." 

"Mother,  dear  mother,  don't  tell  me  any  more 
to-night.  I  fear  for  your  strength,"  urged  Ivory, 
his  eyes  full  of  tears  at  the  remembrance  of  her 
sufferings. 

"There  is  only  a  little  more  and  the  weight  will 
be  off  my  heart  and  on  yours,  my  poor  son. 
Would  that  I  need  not  tell  you!  The  house  was 
still  and  I  thought  at  first  that  no  one  was  awake, 
but  when  I  opened  the  sitting-room  door  the 
child  ran  towards  me  and  took  my  hand  as  the 
woman  came  in  from  the  sick-room.  'Go  into  the 
kitchen,  Rodman,'  she  said,  'and  lace  up  your 
boots;  you're  uoin^  right  out  with  this  lady. 
Hetty  died  in  the  ni^ht,'  she  continued  impas 
sively.  'The  doctor  was  here  about  ten  o'clock 
and  I  've  never  seen  her  so  bad.  He  gave  her  a  big 
dose  of  sleeping  powder  and  put  another  in  the 
table  drawer  for  me  to  mix  for  her  towards  morn 
ing.  She  was  helpless  to  move,  we  thought,  but 
all  the  same  she  must  have  got  out  of  bed  when 
my  back  was  turned  and  taken  the  powder  dry  on 
her  tongue,  for  it  was  gone  when  I  looked  for  it. 

It  did  n't  batten  things  much  and  I  don't  Name 

her.    If  ever  there  was  a    \\ild,  reckless  creature 
it  was  Hetty  Rodman,  l>ul    I,  who  am  just  the 

341 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

opposite,  would  have  done  the  same  if  I  'd  been 
her.' 

"She  hurriedly  gave  me  a  cup  of  coffee,  and, 
putting  a  coat  and  a  cap  on  the  boy,  literally 
pushed  me  out  of  the  house.  'I've  got  to  report 
things  to  the  doctor,'  she  said,  'and  you're  better 
out  of  the  way.  Go  down  that  side  street  to  the 
station  and  mind  you  say  the  boy  belonged  to 
your  sister  who  died  and  left  him  to  you.  You  're 
a  Cochranite,  ain't  you  ?  So  was  Hetty,  and 
they're  all  sisters,  so  you'll  be  telling  no  lies. 
Good-bye,  Rodman,  be  a  good  boy  and  don't  be 
any  trouble  to  the  lady.' 

"How  I  found  the  station  I  do  not  know,  nor 
how  I  made  the  journey,  nor  where  I  took  the 
stage-coach.  The  snow  began  to  fall  and  by  noon 
there  was  a  drifting  storm.  I  could  not  remember 
where  I  was  going,  nor  who  the  boy  was,  for  just 
as  the  snow  was  whirling  outside,  so  it  was  whirl 
ing  in  my  brain." 

"Mother,  I  can  hardly  bear  to  hear  any  more; 
it  is  too  terrible!"  cried  Ivory,  rising  from  his 
chair  and  pacing  the  floor. 

"I  can  recall  nothing  of  any  account  till  I 
awoke  in  my  own  bed  weeks  afterwards.  The 
strange  little  boy  was  there,  but  Mrs.  Day  and 
Dr.  Perry  told  me  what  I  must  have  told  them  — 
that  he  was  the  child  of  my  dead  sister.  Those 

342  ' 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

were  the  last  words  uttered  by  the  woman  in 
Brentville;  I  carried  them  straight  through  my 
illness  and  brought  them  out  on  the  other  side 
more  firmly  intrenched  than  ever." 

"If  only  the  truth  had  come  back  to  you 
sooner!"  sighed  Ivory,  coming  back  to  her  bed 
side.  "I  could  have  helped  you  to  bear  it  all 
these  years.  Sorrow  is  so  much  lighter  when 
you  can  share  it  with  some  one  else.  And  the 
girl  who  died  was  called  Hetty  Rodman,  then, 
and  she  simply  gave  the  child  her  last  name?" 

'Yes,  poor  suffering  creature.  I  feel  no  anger 
against  her  now;  it  has  burned  itself  all  away. 
Nor  do  I  feel  any  bitterness  against  your  father. 
I  forgot  all  this  miserable  story  for  so  long,  loving 
and  watching  for  him  all  the  time,  that  it  is  as  if 
it  did  not  belong  to  my  own  life,  but  had  to  do 
with  sonic  unhappy  stranger.  Can  you  forgive, 
too,  Ivory."" 

"I  can  try,"  he  answered.  "God  knows  I 
ought  to  be  able  to  if  you  can!" 

"And  will  it  turn  you  away  from  Rod?" 

"No,  it  draws  me  nearer  to  him  than  ever.  He 
.shall  never  know  the  truth-  why  should  lie? 
Just  as  he  crept  close  to  you  that  night,  all  uncon 
scious  of  the  reason  you  had  for  shrinking  from 
him,  so  he  has  crept  close  to  me  in  these  years  of 
trial,  when  your  mind  has  been  wandering." 

M8 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

"Life  is  so  strange.  To  think  that  this  child,  of 
all  others,  should  have  been  a  comfort  to  you. 
The  Lord's  hand  is  in  it!"  whispered  Mrs.  Boyn- 
ton  feebly. 

"His  boyish  belief  in  me,  his  companionship, 
have  kept  the  breath  of  hope  alive  in  me  - 
that's  all  I  can  say." 

"The  Bible  story  is  happening  over  again  in  our 
lives,  then.  Don't  you  remember  that  Aaron's 
rod  budded  and  blossomed  and  bore  fruit,  and 
that  the  miracle  kept  the  rebels  from  mur 
muring?" 

"This  rebel  never  will  murmur  again,  mother," 
and  Ivory  rose  to  leave  the  room.  "Now  that 
you  have  shed  your  burden  you  will  grow 
stronger  and  life  will  be  all  joy,  for  Waitstill  will 
come  to  us  soon  and  we  can  shake  off  these 
miseries  and  be  a  happy  family  once  more." 

"It  is  she  who  has  helped  me  most  to  find  the 
thread ;  pouring  sympathy  and  strength  into  me, 
nursing  me,  loving  me,  because  she  loved  my 
wonderful  son.  Oh!  how  blest  among  women  I 
am  to  have  lived  long  enough  to  see  you  happy! " 

And  as  Ivory  kissed  his  mother  and  blew  out 
the  candle,  she  whispered  to  herself:  "Even  so, 
Lord  Jesus,  come  quickly!" 


XXXIV 

THE  DEACON'S  WATERLOO 

MRS.  MASON'S  welcome  to  AYaitstill  was  unex 
pectedly  hearty  —  much  heartier  than  it  would 
have  been  six  months  before,  when  she  regarded 
Mrs.  Boynton  as  little  less  than  a  harmless  luna 
tic,  of  no  use  as  a  neighbor;  and  when  she  knew 
nothing  more  of  Ivory  than  she  could  gather  by 
his  occasional  drive  or  walk  past  her  door  with  a 
civil  greeting.  Rodman  had  been  until  lately  the 
only  member  of  the  family  for  whom  she  had  a 
friendly  feeling;  but  all  that  had  changed  in  the 
last  few  weeks,  when  she  had  been  allowed  to 
take  a  hand  in  the  Boyntons*  affairs.  As  to  this 
newest  development  in  the  life  of  their  household, 
she  had  once  been  young  herself,  and  the  veriest 
block  of  stone  would  have  become  human  when 
I  he  two  lovers  drove  up  to  the  door  and  told  their 
rxcil  iiiij  story. 

Ivory  made  himself  quickly  at  home,  and 
helped  the  old  lady  to  get  a  room  ready  for 
Wait  still  het'ore  he  drove  back  for  a  look  at  his 
mother  and  then  on  to  carry  out  his  impHnons 
and  romantic  scheme  of  routing  out.  the  town 
clerk  and  announcing  his  intended  marriage. 

.'5 1.* 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Waitstill  slept  like  the  shepherd  boy  in  "The  Pil 
grim's  Progress,"  with  the  "herb  called  Heart's 
Ease"  in  her  bosom.  She  opened  her  eyes  next 
morning  from  the  depths  of  Mrs.  Mason's  best 
feather  bed,  and  looked  wonderingly  about  the 
room,  with  all  its  unaccustomed  surroundings. 
She  heard  the  rattle  of  fire-irons  and  the  clatter 
of  dishes  below;  the  first  time  in  all  her  woman's 
life  that  preparations  for  breakfast  had  ever 
greeted  her  ears  when  she  had  not  been  an  active 
participator  in  them. 

She  lay  quite  still  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  tired 
in  body  and  mind,  but  incredibly  happy  in  spirit, 
marvelling  at  the  changes  wrought  in  her  during 
the  day  preceding,  the  most  eventful  one  in  her 
history.  Only  yesterday  her  love  had  been  a 
bud,  so  closely  folded  that  she  scarcely  recog 
nized  its  beauty  or  color  or  fragrance;  only  yes 
terday,  and  now  she  held  in  her  hand  a  perfect 
flower.  AYhen  and  how  had  it  grown,  and  by 
what  magic  process? 

The  image  of  Ivory  had  been  all  through  the 
night  in  the  foreground  of  her  dreams  and  in  her 
moments  of  wakefulness,  both  made  blissful  by 
the  heaven  of  anticipation  that  dawned  upon  her. 
Was  ever  man  so  wise,  so  tender  and  gentle,  so 
strong,  so  comprehending?  What  mattered  the 
absence  of  worldly  goods,  the  presence  of  care 

346 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  anxiety,  when  a  woman  had  a  steady  hand 
to  hold,  a  steadfast  heart  to  trust,  a  man  who 
would  love  her  and  stand  by  her,  whatever  befell? 

Then  the  face  of  Ivory's  mother  would  swim 
into  the  mental  picture;  the  pale  face,  as  white 
as  the  pillow  it  lay  upon;  the  face  with  its  aureole 
of  ashen  hair,  and  the  wistful  blue  eyes  that 
begged  of  God  and  her  children  some  peace  before 
they  closed  on  life. 

The  vision  of  her  sister  was  a  joyful  one,  and 
her  heart  was  at  peace  about  her,  the  plucky 
little  princess  who  had  blazed  the  way  out  of  the 
ogre's  castle. 

She  saw  Patty  clearly  as  a  future  fine  lady,  in 
velvets  and  satins  and  furs,  bewitch  ing  every 
body  by  her  gay  spirits,  her  piquant  vivacity, 
and  the  loving  heart  that  lay  underneath  all  the 
nonsense  and  gave  it  warmth  and  color. 

The  remembrance  of  her  father  alone  on  the 
hilltop  did  indeed  trouble  Waitslill.  Self-re- 
proa  eh,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  she  did  not, 
could  not,  feel.  Never  since  the  day  she  was 
born  had  she  been  fathered,  and  daughterly  love 
\\,i>  al»>ent;  but  she  suffered  when  she  thou-ht 
of  the  fierce,  self-willed  old  man,  cut  I  ing  himself 
off  from  all  possible  friendships,  while  his  vigor 
was  being  sapped  daily  and  hourly  by  his  terri 
ble  greed  of  money. 

347 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

True  housewife  that  Waitstill  was,  her  mind 
reverted  to  every  separate  crock  and  canister  in 
her  cupboards,  every  article  of  her  baking  or 
cooking  that  reposed  on  the  swing-shelf  in  the 
cellar,  thinking  how  long  her  father  could  be 
comfortable  without  her  ministrations,  and  so, 
how  long  he  would  delay  before  engaging  the 
inevitable  housekeeper.  She  revolved  the  num 
ber  of  possible  persons  to  whom  the  position 
would  be  offered,  and  wished  that  Mrs.  Mason, 
who  so  needed  help,  might  be  the  chosen  one :  but 
the  fact  of  her  having  been  friendly  to  the  Boyn- 
tons  would  strike  her  at  once  from  the  list. 

When  she  was  thankfully  eating  her  breakfast 
with  Mrs.  Mason  a  little  later,  and  waiting  for 
Ivory  to  call  for  them  both  and  take  them  to  the 
Boynton  farm,  she  little  knew  what  was  going  on 
at  her  old  home  in  these  very  hours,  when  to  tell 
the  truth  she  would  have  liked  to  slip  in,  had  it 
been  possible,  wash  the  morning  dishes,  skim  the 
cream,  do  the  week's  churning,  make  her  father's 
bed,  and  slip  out  again  into  the  dear  shelter  of 
love  that  awaited  her. 

The  Deacon  had  passed  a  good  part  of  the 
night  in  scheming  and  contriving,  and  when  he 
drank  his  self-made  cup  of  muddy  coffee  at  seven 
o'clock  next  morning  he  had  formed  several 
plans  that  were  to  be  immediately  frustrated,  had 

348 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

he  known  it,  by  the  exasperating  and  suspicious 
nature  of  the  ladies  involved  in  them. 

At  eight  he  had  left  the  house,  started  Bill 
Morrill  at  the  store,  and  was  on  the  road  in 
search  of  vengeance  and  a  housekeeper.  Old 
Mrs.  Atkins  of  Deerwander  sniffed  at  the  wages 
offered.  Miss  Peters,  of  Union  Falls,  an  aged 
spinster  with  weak  lungs,  had  the  impertinence 
to  tell  him  that  she  feared  she  could  n't  stand 
the  cold  in  his  house;  she  had  heard  he  was  very 
particular  about  the  amount  of  wood  that  was 
burned.  A  four-mile  drive  brought  him  to  the 
village  poetically  named  the  Brick  Kiln,  where 
he  offered  to  Mrs.  Peter  Upham  an  advance  of 
I  unity-five  cents  a  week  over  and  above  the  sal 
ary  with  which  he  had  sought  to  tempt  Mrs. 
Atkins.  Far  from  bein^  impressed,  Mrs.  Up 
ham,  being  of  a  high  temper  and  candid  turn  of 
mind,  told  him  she'd  prefer  to  starve  at  home. 
There  was  not  another  free  woman  within  eight 
miles,  and  the  Deacon  was  chafing  under  the 
mortification  of  being  continually  obliged  to 
State  I  lie  n -a sons  of  his  needing  a  housekeeper. 
The  only  hope,  it  seemed,  lay  in  goin.ur  to  Saco 
and  hiring  a  stranger,  a  plan  not  at  all  to  his 
liking,  as  it  was  sure  to  involve  him  in  extra 
expense. 

Muttering  threats  against  the  univ<  r- ,-  in 
349 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

general,  he  drove  home  by  way  of  Milliken's 
Mills,  thinking  of  the  unfed  hens,  the  unmilked 
cow,  the  unwashed  dishes,  the  unchurned  cream, 
and  above  all  of  his  unchastened  daughters;  his 
rage  increasing  with  every  step  until  it  was 
nearly  at  the  white  heat  of  the  night  before. 

A  long  stretch  of  hill  brought  the  tired  old  mare 
to  a  slow  walk,  and  enabled  the  Deacon  to  see 
the  Widow  Tillman  clipping  the  geraniums  that 
stood  in  tin  cans  on  the  shelf  of  her  kitchen 
window. 

Now,  Foxwell  Baxter  had  never  been  a  village 
Lothario  at  any  age,  nor  frequented  the  society 
of  such.  Of  late  years,  indeed,  he  had  frequented 
no  society  of  any  kind,  so  that  he  had  missed,  for 
instance,  Abel  Day's  description  of  the  Widow 
Tillman  as  a  "reg'lar  syreen,"  though  he  vaguely 
remembered  that  some  of  the  Baptist  sisters  had 
questioned  the  authenticity  of  her  conversion  by 
their  young  and  attractive  minister.  She  made  a 
pleasant  picture  at  the  window;  she  was  a  free 
woman  (a  little  too  free,  the  neighbors  would 
have  said ;  but  the  Deacon  did  n't  know  that) ; 
she  was  a  comparative  newcomer  to  the  village, 
and  her  mind  had  not  been  poisoned  with  fem 
inine  gossip  —  in  a  word,  she  was  a  distinctly 
hopeful  subject,  and,  acting  on  a  blind  and  sud 
den  impulse,  he  turned  into  the  yard,  flung  the 

350 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

reins  over  the  mare's  neck,  and  knocked  at  the 
back  door. 

"Her  character's  no  worse  than  mine  by  now, 
if  Aunt  Abby  Cole's  on  the  road,"  he  thought 
grimly,  "an'  if  the  Wilsons  see  my  sleigh  inside  of 
a  widder's  fence,  so  much  the  better;  it'll  give 
'em  a  jog.  —  Good  mornin',  Mis'  Tillman,"  he 
said  to  the  smiling  lady.  "I'll  come  to  the  p'int 
at  once.  My  youngest  daughter  has  married 
Mark  Wilson  against  my  will,  an'  gone  away 
from  town,  an'  the  older  one's  chosen  a  husband 
still  less  to  my  likin'.  Do  you  want  to  come  and 
housekeep  for  me?" 

"I  surmised  something  was  going  on,"  re 
turned  Mrs.  Tillman.  "I  saw  Patty  and  Mark 
drive  away  early  this  morning,  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Wilson  wrapping  the  girl  up  and  putting 
a  hot  soapstone  in  the  sleigh,  and  consid'able 
ki>sinij  and  hugging  thrown  in." 

This  knowledge  added  fuel  to  the  flame  that 
was  burning  fiercely  in  the  Deacon's  breast. 

"Well,  how  about  the  housekeeping"  he 
asked,  trying  not  to  show  his  eagerness,  and  not 
recomii/in^  himself  at  all  in  the  enterprise  in 
which  he  round  himself  indulging. 

"I'm  very  comfortable  here,"  the  lady  re 
sponded  artfully,  "and  I  don't  know  's  I  care  to 
make  any  change,  thank  you.  I  did  n't  like  the 

961 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

village  much  at  first,  after  living  in  larger  places, 
but  now  I'm  acquainted,  it  kind  of  gains  on 


me." 


Her  reply  was  carefully  framed,  for  her  mind 
worked  with  great  rapidity,  and  she  was  mistress 
of  the  situation  almost  as  soon  as  she  saw  the 
Deacon  alighting  from  his  sleigh.  He  was  not  the 
sort  of  man  to  be  a  casual  caller,  and  his  manner 
bespoke  an  urgent  errand.  She  had  a  pension  of 
six  dollars  a  month,  but  over  and  above  that  sum 
her  living  was  precarious.  She  made  coats,  and 
she  had  never  known  want,  for  she  was  a  master 
hand  at  dealing  with  the  opposite  sex.  Deacon 
Baxter,  according  to  common  report,  had  ten  or 
fifteen  thousand  dollars  stowed  away  in  the 
banks,  so  the  situation  would  be  as  simple  as 
possible  under  ordinary  circumstances;  it  was 
as  easy  to  turn  out  one  man's  pockets  as  an 
other's  when  he  was  a  normal  human  being;  but 
Deacon  Baxter  was  a  different  proposition. 

"I  wonder  how  long  he's  likely  to  live,"  she 
thought,  glancing  at  him  covertly,  out  of  the  tail 
of  her  eye.  "His  evil  temper  must  have  driven 
more  than  one  nail  in  his  coffin.  I  wonder,  if  I 
refuse  to  housekeep,  whether  I  '11  get  —  a  better 
offer.  I  wonder  if  I  could  manage  him  if  I  got 
him!  I'd  rather  like  to  set  in  the  Baxter  pew  at 
the  Orthodox  meeting-house  after  the  way  some 

352 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

of  the  Baptist  sisters  have  snubbed  me  since  I 
come  here." 

Not  a  vestige  of  these  incendiary  thoughts 
showed  in  her  comely  countenance,  and  her  soul 
might  have  been  as  white  as  the  high-bibbed 
apron  that  covered  it,  to  judge  by  her  genial 
smile. 

"I'd  make  the  wages  fair,"  urged  the  Deacon, 
looking  round  the  clean  kitchen,  with  the  break  - 
fast-table  sitting  near  the  sunny  window  and  the 
odor  of  corned  beef  and  cabbage  issuing  tempt 
ingly  from  a  boiling  pot  on  the  fire.  "I  hope  she 
ain't  a  great  meat-eater,"  he  thought,  "but  it's 
too  soon  to  cross  that  bridge  yet  a  while." 

"I've  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  widow,  won 
dering  if  her  voice  rang  true;  "but  I've  got  a 
pension,  and  why  should  I  leave  this  cosy  little 
home?  Would  I  better  myself  any,  that's  the 
question?  I'm  kind  of  lonesome  here,  that  's  the 
only  reason  I'd  consider  a  move." 

"No  need  o'  bein'  lonesome  down  to  the  Falls," 
said  the  Deacon.  "And  I'm  in  an'  out  all  day, 
between  the  barn  an'  the  store." 

This,  indeed,  was  not  a  pleasant  prospect,  hut 
Jane  Tillman  had  faced  worse  ones  in  her  time. 

"I'm  no  hand  at  any  work  outside  the  house," 
she  observed,  as  if  reflecting.  "I  can  truthfully 
say  I'm  a  good  cook,  and  have  a  great  faculty  for 

353 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

making  a  little  go  a  long  ways."  (She  considered 
this  a  master-stroke,  and  in  fact  it  was;  for  the 
Deacon's  mouth  absolutely  watered  at  this 
apparently  unconscious  comprehension  of  his 
disposition.)  "But  I'm  no  hand  at  any  chores 
in  the  barn  or  shed,"  she  continued.  "My 
husband  would  never  allow  me  to  do  that  kind  of 
work." 

"Perhaps  I  could  git  a  boy  to  help  out;  I've 
been  kind  o'  thinkin'  o'  that  lately.  What  wages 
would  you  expect  if  I  paid  a  boy  for  the  rough 
work?"  asked  the  Deacon  tremulously. 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  quite  fancy  the 
idea  of  taking  wages.  Judge  Dickinson  wants  me 
to  go  to  Alfred  and  housekeep  for  him,  and 
named  twelve  dollars  a  month.  It's  good  pay, 
and  I  have  n't  said  *  No ' ;  but  my  rent  is  small 
here,  I'm  my  own  mistress,  and  I  don't  feel  like 
giving  up  my  privileges." 

:< Twelve  dollars  a  month!"  He  had  never 
thought  of  approaching  that  sum;  and  he  saw 
the  heap  of  unwashed  dishes  growing  day  by 
day,  and  the  cream  souring  on  the  milk-pans. 
Suddenly  an  idea  sprang  full-born  into  the 
Deacon's  mind  (Jed  Merrill's  "Old  Driver" 
must  have  been  close  at  hand!).  Would  Jane 
Tillman  marry  him?  No  woman  in  the  three 
villages  would  be  more  obnoxious  to  his  daugh- 

354 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

ters;  that  in  itself  was  a  distinct  gain.  She  was  a 
fine,  robust  figure  of  a  woman  in  her  early  forties, 
and  he  thought,  after  all,  that  the  hollow- 
chested,  spindle-shanked  kind  were  more  ex- 
pnsi  veto  feed,  on  the  whole,  than  their  better- 
padded  sisters.  He  had  never  had  any  difficulty 
in  managing  wives,  and  thought  himself  quite 
equal  to  one  more  bout,  even  at  sixty-five,  though 
he  had  just  the  faintest  suspicion  that  the  high 
color  on  Airs.  Tillman's  prominent  cheek-bones, 
the  vigor  shown  in  the  coarse  black  hair  and 
handsome  eyebrows,  might  make  this  task  a  lit- 
tle  more  difficult  than  his  previous  ones.  But  this 
fear  vanished  almost  as  quickly  as  it  appeared, 
for  he  kept  saying  to  himself:  "A  judge  of  the 
County  Court  wants  her  at  twelve  dollars  a 
month;  hadn't  I  better  bid  high  an'  git  settled?" 

"If  you'd  like  to  have  a  home  o'  your  own 
'thout  payiif  rent,  you've  only  got  to  say  the 
w<>rd  an'  I'll  make  you  Mis'  Baxter,"  said  the 
Deacon.  'There'll  be  nobody  to  interfere  with 
you,  an'  a  handsome  legacy  if  I  die  first :  for  none 
o'  my  few  savin's  is  goin'  to  my  daughters,  I  can 
pn>miM>  yon  that  !" 

The  Deacon  threw  out  this  tempting  hail 
advisedly,  for  at  Ihis  moment  lie  would  have 
poured  his  hoard  into  the  lap  of  any  woman  who 
would  help  him  to  avenge  his  fancied  wrongs. 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

This  was  information,  indeed!  The  "few  sav 
ings"  alluded  to  amounted  to  some  thousands, 
Jane  Tillman  knew.  Had  she  not  better  burn  her 
ships  behind  her,  take  the  risks,  and  have  faith 
in  her  own  powers?  She  was  getting  along  in 
years,  and  her  charms  of  person  were  lessening 
with  every  day  that  passed  over  her  head.  If  the 
Deacon's  queer  ways  grew  too  queer,  she  thought 
an  appeal  to  the  doctor  and  the  minister  might 
provide  a  way  of  escape  and  a  neat  little  income 
to  boot;  so,  on  the  whole,  the  marriage,  though 
much  against  her  natural  inclinations,  seemed  to 
be  providentially  arranged. 

The  interview  that  succeeded,  had  it  been 
reported  verbatim,  deserved  to  be  recorded  in 
local  history.  Deacon  Baxter  had  met  in  Jane 
Tillman  a  foeman  more  than  worthy  of  his  steel. 
She  was  just  as  crafty  as  he,  and  in  generalship 
as  much  superior  to  him  as  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
to  Cephas  Cole.  Her  knowledge  of  and  her  ex 
periences  with  men,  all  very  humble,  it  is  true, 
but  decidedly  varied,  enabled  her  to  play  on 
every  weakness  of  this  particular  one  she  had  in 
hand,  and  at  the  same  time  skilfully  to  avoid 
alarming  him. 

Heretofore,  the  women  with  whom  the  Deacon 
had  come  in  contact  had  timidly  steered  away 
from  the  rocks  and  reefs  in  his  nature,  and  had 

35(> 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

been  too  ignorant  or  too  proud  to  look  among 
tin  in  for  certain  softer  places  that  were  likely  to 
be  there  —  since  man  is  man,  after  all,  even 
when  he  is  made  on  a  very  small  pattern. 

If  Jane  Tillman  became  Mrs.  Baxter,  she 
intended  to  get  the  whip  hand  and  keep  it;  but 
nothing  was  further  from  her  intention  than  to 
make  the  Deacon  miserable  if  she  could  help  it. 
That  was  not  her  disposition;  and  so,  when  the 
deluded  man  left  her  house,  he  had  made  more 
concessions  in  a  single  hour  than  in  all  the  former 
years  of  his  life. 

His  future  spouse  was  to  write  out  a  little 
paper  for  his  signature;  just  a  friendly  little 
paper  to  be  kept  quite  private  and  confidential 
between  themselves,  stating  that  she  was  to  do 
no  work  outside  of  the  house;  that  her  pension 
\.i>  to  he  her  own;  that  she  was  to  have  five  dol 
lars  in  cash  on  the  first  of  every  month  in  lieu  of 
wages;  and  that  in  case  of  his  death  occurring 
firM  she  was  to  have  a  third  of  his  estate,  and  t  he 
whole  of  it  if  at  the  time  of  his  decease  he  was  still 
pleased  with  his  bargain.  The  only  points  in  this 
contract  that  the  Deacon  really  understood  were 
(hat  he  was  paying  only  five  dollars  a  month  fora 
housekeeper  to  whom  a  judge  had  offered  twelve; 
that,  as  he  had  expeeted  to  pay  at  least  eight,  he 
could  get  a  boy  for  the  remaining  three,  and  so  be 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

none  the  worse  in  pocket;  also,  that  if  he  could 
keep  his  daughters  from  getting  his  money,  he 
did  n't  care  a  hang  who  had  it,  as  he  hated  the 
whole  human  race  with  entire  impartiality.  If 
Jane  Tillman  did  n't  behave  herself,  he  had 
pleasing  visions  of  converting  most  of  his  fortune 
into  cash  and  having  it  dropped  off  the  bridge 
some  dark  night,  when  the  doctor  had  given  him 
up  and  proved  to  his  satisfaction  that  death 
would  occur  in  the  near  future. 

All  this  being  harmoniously  settled,  the  Dea 
con  drove  away,  and  caused  the  announcement 
of  his  immediate  marriage  to  be  posted  directly 
below  that  of  Waitstill  and  Ivory  Boynton. 

"Might  as  well  have  all  the  fat  in  the  fire  to 
once,"  he  chuckled.  ':< There  won't  be  any  house 
work  done  in  this  part  of  the  county  for  a  week  to 
come.  If  we  should  have  more  snow,  nobody '11 
have  to  do  any  shovellin',  for  the  women-folks  '11 
keep  all  the  paths  in  the  village  trod  down  from 
door  to  door,  travellin'  round  with  the  news." 

A  "spite  match,"  the  community  in  general 
called  the  Deacon's  marriage;  and  many  a  man, 
and  many  a  woman,  too,  regarding  the  amazing 
publishing  notice  in  the  frame  up  at  the  meeting 
house,  felt  that  in  Jane  Tillman  Deacon  Baxter 
had  met  his  Waterloo. 

"She's  plenty  good  enough  for  him,"  said 
358 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Aunt  Abby  Cole,  "though  I  know  that's  a 
terrible  poor  compliment.  If  she  thinks  slidl 
ever  break  into  s'ciety  here  at  the  Falls,  she'll 
find  herself  mistaken!  It's  a  mystery  to  me  why 
the  poor  deluded  man  ever  done  it;  but  ain't 
it  wonderful  the  ingenuity  the  Lord  shows  in 
punishin'  sinners?  I  could  n't  'a'  thought  out 
such  a  good  comeuppance  myself  for  Deacon 
Baxter,  as  luarrvin'  Jane  Tillman!  The  thing 
that  troubles  me  most,  is  thinkin'  how  tickled  the 
Baptists  '11  be  to  git  her  out  o'  their  meetin'  an' 
in  to  ourn!" 


XXXV 

TWO    HEAVENS 

AT  the  very  moment  that  Deacon  Baxter  was 
starting  out  on  his  quest  for  a  housekeeper,  Patty 
and  Mark  drove  into  the  Mason  dooryard  and 
the  sisters  flew  into  each  other's  arms.  The 
dress  that  Mark  had  bought  for  Patty  was  the 
usual  charming  and  unsuitable  offering  of  a 
man's  spontaneous  affection,  being  of  dark  violet 
cloth  with  a  wadded  cape  lined  with  satin.  A 
little  brimmed  hat  of  violet  velvet  tied  under  her 
chin  with  silk  ribbons  completed  the  costume, 
and  before  the  youthful  bride  and  groom  had 
left  the  ancestral  door  Mrs.  Wilson  had  hung 
her  own  ermine  victorine  (the  envy  of  all  Edge- 
wood)  around  Patty's  neck  and  put  her  ermine 
pillow  muff  into  her  new  daughter's  hands;  thus 
she  was  as  dazzling  a  personage,  and  as  im 
properly  dressed  for  the  journey,  as  she  could 
well  be. 

Waitstill,    in   her   plain    linsey-woolsey,    was 

entranced  with  Patty's  beauty  and  elegance,  and 

the  two  girls  had  a  few  minutes  of  sisterly  talk,  of 

"interchange  of  radiant  hopes  and  confidences 

360 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

before-  Mark  tore  them  apart,  their  cheeks  wet 
with  happy  tears. 

As  the  Mason  house  faded  from  view,  Patty 
having  waved  her  muff  until  the  last  moment, 
turned  in  her  seat  and  said:  — 

"Mark,  dear,  do  you  think  your  father  would 
care  if  I  spent  the  twenty-dollar  gold-piece  he 
gave  me,  for  Waitstill?  She  will  be  married  in  a 
fortnight,  and  if  my  father  does  not  give  her  the 
few  things  she  owns  she  will  go  to  her  husband 
more  ill-provided  even  than  I  was.  I  have  so 
much,  dear  Mark,  and  she  so  little.'* 

"It's  your  own  wedding-present  to  use  as  you 
wish/'  Mark  answered,  "and  it's  exactly  like  you 
to  give  it  away.  (Io  ahead  and  spend  it  if 
you  want  to;  I  can  always  earn  enough  to  keep 
you,  without  anybody's  help!"  and  Mark,  after 
cracking  the  whip  vainglnriously,  kissed  his  wife 
just  over  the  violet  ribbons,  and  with  sleigh-bells 
jingling  they  sped  over  the  snow  towards  what 
seemed  Paradise  to  them,  the  New  Hampshire 
village  where  they  had  been  married  and  where 
their  new  life  would  begin. 

So,  a  few  days  later,  Waitstill  reeeived  a  great 
parcel  which  relieved  her  of  many  feminine  anx 
ieties  and  she  br^an  to  shape  and  cut  and  stitch 
during  all  the  Imurx  >li<>  had  to  herself.  They 
were  not  many,  for  every  day  she  trudged  to  the 

3G1 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

Boynton  farm  and  began  with  youthful  enthu 
siasm  the  household  tasks  that  were  so  soon  to  be 
hers  by  right. 

"Don't  waste  too  much  time  and  strength 
here,  my  dearest,"  said  Ivory.  "Do  you  suppose 
for  a  moment  I  shall  keep  you  long  on  this  lonely 
farm?  I  am  ready  for  admission  to  the  Bar  or  I 
am  fitted  to  teach  in  the  best  school  in  New  Eng 
land.  Nothing  has  held  me  here  but  my  mother, 
and  in  her  present  condition  of  mind  we  can  safely 
take  her  anywhere.  We  will  never  live  where 
there  are  so  many  memories  and  associations  to 
sadden  and  hamper  us,  but  go  where  the  best  op 
portunity  offers,  and  as  soon  as  may  be.  My  wife 
will  be  a  pearl  of  great  price,"  he  added  fondly, 
"and  I  intend  to  provide  a  right  setting  for  her!" 

This  was  all  said  in  a  glow  of  love  and  joy, 
pride  and  ambition,  as  Ivory  paced  up  and  down 
before  the  living-room  fireplace  while  Waitstill 
was  hanging  the  freshly  laundered  curtains. 

Ivory  was  right;  Waitstill  Baxter  was,  indeed, 
a  jewel  of  a  woman.  She  had  little  knowledge, 
but  much  wisdom,  and  after  all,  knowledge 
stands  for  the  leaves  on  a  tree  and  wisdom  for 
the  fruit.  There  was  infinite  richness  in  the  girl, 
a  richness  that  had  been  growing  and  ripening 
through  the  years  that  she  thought  so  gray  and 
wasted.  The  few  books  she  owned  and  loved  had 

368 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

generally  lain  unopened,  it  is  true,  upon  her  bed 
room  table,  and  she  held  herself  as  having  far 
too  little  learning  to  be  a  worthy  companion  for 
Ivory  Boynton;  but  all  the  beauty  and  cheer  and 
comfort  that  could  ever  be  pressed  into  the  arid 
life  of  the  Baxter  household  had  come  from  Wait- 
still's  heart,  and  that  heart  had  grown  in  warmth 
and  plenty  year  by  year. 

Those  lonely  tasks,  too  hard  for  a  girl's  hands, 
those  unrewarded  drudgeries,  those  days  of 
faithful  labor  in  and  out  of  doors,  those  evenings 
of  self-sacrifice  over  the  mending-basket;  the 
quiet  avoidance  of  all  that  might  vex  her  father's 
crusty  temper,  her  patience  with  his  miserly 
exactions;  the  hourly  holding  back  of  the  hasty 
word,  --  all  these  had  played  their  part;  all  these 
had  been  somehow  welded  into  a  strong,  sunny, 
steady,  life-wisdom,  there  is  no  better  name  for 
it;  and  so  she  had  unconsciously  the  best  of  all 
harvests  to  bring  as  dower  to  a  husband  who 
was  worthy  of  her.  Ivory's  strength  called  to 
hers  and  answered  it,  just  as  his  great  need 
awoke  Mich  a  power  of  hclpfulnesN  in  her  as  -he 
did  not  know  >he  possessed.  She  loved  the  m,-m, 
but  she  loved  the  task  that  beckoned  her,  tcx). 
The  vision  of  il  was  like  the  breath  of  wind  from 
a  hill-top,  putting  salt  and  savor  into  the  new 
life  that  opened  before  her. 

sea 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

These  were  quietly  happy  days  at  the  farm,  for 
Mrs.  Boynton  took  a  new,  if  transient,  hold  upon 
life  that  deceived  even  the  doctor.  Rodman  was 
nearly  as  ardent  a  lover  as  Ivory,  hovering  about 
Waitstill  and  exclaiming,  "You  never  stay  to 
supper  and  it's  so  lonesome  evenings  without 
you!  Will  it  never  be  time  for  you  to  come  and 
live  with  us,  Waity  dear?  The  days  crawl  so 
slowly!"  At  which  Ivory  would  laugh,  push  him 
away  and  draw  Waitstill  nearer  to  his  own  side, 
saying:  "If  you  are  in  a  hurry,  you  young  cor 
morant,  what  do  you  think  of  me?"  And  Wait- 
still  would  look  from  one  to  the  other  and  blush 
at  the  heaven  of  love  that  surrounded  her  on 
every  side. 

"I  believe  you  are  longing  to  begin  on  my 
cooking,  you  two  big  greedy  boys!"  she  said 
teasingly.  "What  shall  we  have  for  New  Year's 
dinner,  Rod?  Do  you  like  a  turkey,  roasted 
brown  and  crispy,  with  giblet  gravy  and  cran 
berry  jelly?  Do  you  fancy  an  apple  dumpling 
afterwards,  —  an  apple  dumpling  with  potato 
crust,  —  or  will  you  have  a  suet  pudding  with 
foamy  sauce?" 

"Stop,  Waitstill!"  cried  Ivory.  "Don't  put 
hope  into  us  until  you  are  ready  to  satisfy  it;  we 
can't  bear  it!" 

"And  I  have  a  box  of  goodies  from  my  own 
304 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

garden  safely  stowed  away  in  Uncle  Bart's 
shop,"  Waitstill  went  on  mischievously.  "  They 
were  to  be  sold  in  Portland,  but  I  think  they'll 
have  to  be  my  wedding-present  to  my  husband, 
though  a  very  strange  one,  indeed!  There  are 
peaches  floating  in  sweet  syrup;  there  are  tum 
blers  of  quince  jelly;  there  are  jars  of  tomato 
and  citron  preserves,  and  for  supper  you  shall 
eat  them  with  biscuits  as  light  as  feathers  and 
wrhite  as  snowdrifts." 

"We  can  never  wait  two  more  days,  Rod;  let 
us  kidnap  her!  Let  us  take  the  old  bob-sled  and 
run  over  to  New  Hampshire  where  one  can  be 
married  the  minute  one  feels  like  it.  We  could  do 
it  between  sunrise  and  moonrise  and  be  at  home 
for  a  late  supper.  Would  she  be  too  tired  to  bake 
the  biscuits  for  us,  do  you  think?  What  do  you 
say,  Rod,  will  you  be  best  man?"  And  there 
would  be  youthful,  unaccustomed  laughter  float 
ing  out  from  the  kitchen  or  living-room,  bringing 
a  smile  of  content  to  Lois  Boynton's  face  as 
she  lay  propped  up  in  bed  with  her  open  Bil.le 
hoide  her.  M  He  hinds  up  the  broken-hearted," 
she  whispered  to  herself.  "  He  gives  unto  them 
a  garland  for  ashes;  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourn 
ing;  the  garment  of  praise  for  the  spirit  of  heavi 


ness." 


'    THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

The  quiet  wedding  was  over.  There  had  been 
neither  feasting,  nor  finery,  nor  presents,  nor 
bridal  journey;  only  a  home-coming  that  meant 
as  deep  and  sacred  a  joy,  as  fervent  gratitude  as 
any  four  hearts  ever  contained  in  all  the  world. 
But  the  laughter  ceased,  though  the  happiness 
flowed  silently  underneath,  almost  forgotten  in 
the  sudden  sorrow  that  overcame  them,  for  it 
fell  out  that  Lois  Boynton  had  only  waited, 
as  it  were,  for  the  marriage,  and  could  stay  no 
longer. 

"...  There  are  two  heavens  .  .  . 
Both  made  of  love,  —  one,  inconceivable 
Ev'n  by  the  other,  so  divine  it  is; 
The  other,  far  on  this  side  of  the  stars, 
By  men  called  home.*' 

And  these  two  heavens  met,  over  at  Boyntons', 
during  these  cold,  white,  glistening  December 
days. 

Lois  Boynton  found  hers  first.  After  a  windy 
moonlit  night  a  morning  dawned  in  which  a  hush 
seemed  to  be  on  the  earth.  The  cattle  huddled 
together  in  the  farmyards  and  the  fowrls  shrank 
into  their  feathers.  The  sky  was  gray,  and  sud 
denly  the  first  white  heralds  came  floating  down 
like  scouts  seeking  for  paths  and  camping-places. 

Waitstill  turned  Mrs.  Boynton's  bed  so  that 
she  could  look  out  of  the  window.  Slope  after 

366 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

slope,  dazzling   in   white  crust,  rose  one  upon 
another  and  vanished  as  they  slipped  away  into 
the  dark  green  of  the  pine  forests. 
Then, 

"...  there  fell  from  out  the  skies 
A  feathery  whiteness  over  all  the  land; 
A  strange,  soft,  spotless  something,  pure  as  light." 

It  could  not  be  called  a  storm,  for  there  had  been 
no  wind  since  sunrise,  no  whirling  fury,  no  drift 
ing;  only  a  still,  steady,  solemn  fall  of  crystal 
flakes,  hour  after  hour,  hour  after  hour. 

Mrs.  Boyn ton's  Book  of  books  was  open  on 
the  bed  and  her  finger  marked  a  passage  in  her 
favorite  Bible-poet. 

"Hen- it  is,  daughter/9  she  whispered.  "Ihave 
found  it,  in  the  same  chapter  where  the  morning 
stars  sing  together  and  the  sons  of  God  shout  for 
joy.  The  Lord  speaks  to  Job  out  of  the  whirl 
wind  and  says:  '  Hast  th«n  entered  into  the  treasurer 
of  the  snow?  or  hast  thon  seen  the  treasures  of  the 
hail?'  Sit  near  me,  \Yaitstill,  and  look  out  on  the 
hills.  '//</>•/  thnu  entered  into  the  treasures  of  the 
snmo?'  No,  not  yet,  Imt  please  (iod.  I  >hall,  and 
into  many  other  trea>niv>.  Boon";  and  she  elo>ed 
her  eyes. 

All  day  lon^  the  air-ways  were  filled  with  the 
^litterinir  army  of  the  BQOWflftkes;  all  day  long 
the  snow  grew  deeper  and  deeper  on  the  ground; 

867 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

and  on  the  breath  of  some  white-winged  wonder 
that  passed  Lois  Boynton's  window  her  white 
soul  forsook  its  "earth-lot"  and  took  flight  at 
last. 

They  watched  beside  her,  but  never  knew  the 
moment  of  her  going;  it  was  just  a  silent  flitting, 
a  ceasing  to  be,  without  a  tremor,  or  a  flutter  that 
could  be  seen  by  mortal  eye.  Her  face  was  so  like 
an  angel's  in  its  shining  serenity  that  the  few  who 
loved  her  best  could  not  look  upon  her  with  any 
thing  but  reverent  joy.  On  earth  she  had  known 
nothing  but  the  "broken  arcs,"  but  in  heaven  she 
would  find  the  "perfect  round";  there  at  last, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  stars,  she  could  remem 
ber  right,  poor  Lois  Boynton ! 

For  weeks  afterwards  the  village  was  shrouded 
in  snow  as  it  had  never  been  before  within  mem 
ory,  but  in  every  happy  household  the  home-life 
deepened  day  by  day.  The  books  came  out  in  the 
long  evenings;  the  grandsires  told  old  tales  under 
the  inspiration  of  the  hearth-fire;  the  children 
gathered  on  their  wooden  stools  to  roast  apples 
and  pop  corn;  and  hearts  came  closer  together 
than  when  summer  called  the  housemates  to 
wander  here  and  there  in  fields  and  woods  and 
beside  the  river. 

Over  at  Boyntons',  when  the  snow  was  whirl- 
368 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

ing  and  the  wind  howling  round  the  chimneys  of 
the  high-gabled  old  farmhouse;  when  every  win 
dow  had  its  frame  of  ermine  and  fringe  of  icicles, 
and  the  sleet  rattled  furiously  against  the  glass, 
thru  Ivory  would  throw  a  great  back  log  on  the 
hank  of  coals  between  the  fire-dogs,  the  kettle 
\\onld  begin  to  sing,  and  the  cat  come  from  some 
snug  corner  to  curl  and  purr  on  the  braided 
hearth-rug. 

School  was  in  session,  and  Ivory  and  Rod  had 
their  textbooks  of  an  evening,  but  oh!  what  a  new 
and  strange  joy  to  study  when  there  was  a  sweet 
woman  sitting  near  with  her  workbasket;  a 
woman  wearing  a  shining  braid  of  hair  as  if  it 
were  a  coronet ;  a  woman  of  clear  eyes  and  tender 
lips,  one  who  could  feel  as  well  as  think,  one  who 
could  be  a  man's  comrade  as  well  as  his  dear  love. 
Truly  the  second  heaven,  the  one  on  "this  side  of 
the  stars,  by  men  called  home,"  was  very  present 
over  at  Boyntons'. 

Sometimes  the  broad-seated  old  haircloth  sofa 
would  be  drawn  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  Ivory, 
laying  his  pipe  and  hi>  (ire»-k  irrammar  on  the 
table,  would  take  some  lighter  hook  and  open  it 
on  his  knee.  Waitstill  would  lift  her  eyes  from 
her  sewing  to  meet  her  husband's  glance  that 
.spoke  lomrin^  for  her  closer  companionship,  and 
gladly  leaving  her  work,  and  slipping  into  the 

860 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

place  by  his  side,  she  would  put  her  elbow  on 
his  shoulder  and  read  with  him. 

Once,  Rod,  from  his  place  at  a  table  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  looked  and  looked  at 
them  writh  a  kind  of  instinct  beyond  his  years, 
and  finally  crept  up  to  Waitstill,  and  putting  an 
arm  through  hers,  nestled  his  curly  head  on  her 
shoulder  with  the  quaint  charm  and  grace  that 
belonged  to  him. 

It  was  a  young  and  beautiful  shoulder,  Wait- 
stilPs,  and  there  had  always  been,  and  would 
always  be,  a  gracious  curve  in  it  where  a  child's 
head  might  lie  in  comfort.  Presently  with  a  shy 
pressure,  Rod  whispered:  "Shall  I  sit  in  the  other 
room,  Waitstill  and  Ivory?  —  Am  I  in  the  way?  " 

Ivory  looked  up  from  his  book  quietly  shaking 
his  head,  while  Waitstill  put  her  arm  around  the 
boy  and  drew  him  closer. 

"Our  little  brother  is  never  in  the  way,"  she 
said,  as  she  bent  and  kissed  him. 

Men  may  come  and  men  may  go ;  Saco  Water 
still  tumbles  tumultuously  over  the  dam  and 
rushes  under  the  Edgewood  bridge  on  its  way  to 
the  sea;  and  still  it  listens  to  the  story  of  to-day 
that  will  sometime  be  the  history  of  yesterday. 

On  midsummer  evenings  the  windows  of  the 
old  farmhouse  over  at  Boyntons*  gleam  with  un- 

370 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

accustomed  lights  ami  voices  break  the  stillness, 
ning  the  gloom  of  the  long  grass-grown  lane 
of  Lois  Boynton's  watching  in  days  gone  by. 
On  sunny  mornings  there  is  a  merry  babel  of 
children's  chatter,  mingled  with  gentle  maternal 
warnings,  for  this  is  a  new  brood  of  young  things 
and  the  river  is  calling  them  as  it  has  called  all 
the  others  who  ever  came  within  the  circle  of  its 
magic.  The  fragile  harebells  hanging  their  blue 
heads  from  the  crevices  of  the  rocks;  I  he  brilliant 
columbines  swaying  to  and  fro  on  their  tall  stalks; 
the  patches  of  gleaming  sand  in  shallow  places 
beckoning  lit  tie  bare  feet  to  come  and  tread  them; 
the  glint  of  silver  minnows  darting  hither  and 
thither  in  some  still  pool;  the  tempestuous  jour 
ney  of  some  weather-beaten  log,  fighting  its  way 
downs!  re;im; —  here  is  life  in  abundance,  luring 
the  child  to  share  its  risks  and  its  joys. 

When  Wait  still's  boys  and  Patty's  girls  come 
back  to  the  farm,  they  play  by  Saco  Water  as 
their  mothers  and  their  fathers  did  before  them. 
The  paths  through  the  pine  woods  along  the 
river's  brink  are  trodden  smooth  by  their  rest- 
Ie88,  wandering  feel;  their  eager,  curious  eyes 
.search  the  waysides  for  adventure,  but  their 
babble  and  laii-ht  er  are  <  •  !'(  eiie>l  heard  from  the 
ruins  of  an  old  house  hidd'  real  trees.  The 

stones  of  the  cellar,  all  OVergtOWO   with   hlack- 

371 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

berry  vines,  are  still  there,  and  a  fragment  of  the 
brick  chimney,  where  swallows  build  their  nests 
from  year  to  year.  A  wilderness  of  weeds,  tall 
and  luxuriant,  springs  up  to  hide  the  stone  over 
which  Jacob  Cochrane  stepped  daily  when  he 
issued  from  his  door ;  and  the  polished  stick  with 
which  three-year-old  Patty  beats  a  tattoo  may  be 
a  round  from  the  very  chair  in  which  he  sat,  ex 
pounding  the  Bible  according  to  his  own  vision. 
The  thickets  of  sweet  clover  and  red-tipped 
grasses,  of  waving  ferns  and  young  alder  bushes 
hide  all  of  ugliness  that  belongs  to  the  deserted 
spot  and  serve  as  a  miniature  forest  in  whose 
shade  the  younglings  foreshadow  the  future  at 
their  play  of  home-building  and  housekeeping. 
In  a  far  corner,  altogether  concealed  from  the 
passer-by,  there  is  a  secret  treasure,  a  wonderful 
rosebush,  its  green  leaves  shining  with  health  and 
vigor.  When  the  July  sun  is  turning  the  1  lay- 
fields  yellow,  the  children  part  the  bushes  in  the 
leafy  corner  and  little  Waitstill  Boynton  steps 
cautiously  in,  to  gather  one  splendid  rose,  "for 
father  and  mother." 

Jacob  Cochrane's  heart,  with  all  its  faults  and 
frailties  has  long  been  at  peace.  On  a  chill,  dreary 
night  in  November,  all  that  was  mortal  of  him 
was  raised  from  its  unhonored  resting-place  not 
far  from  the  ruins  of  his  old  abode,  and  borne  by 

372 


THE  STORY  OF  WAITSTILL  BAXTER 

three  of  his  disciples  far  away  to  another  state. 
The  gravestones  were  replaced,  face  downward, 
deep,  deep  in  the  earth,  and  the  sod  laid  back 
upon  them,  so  that  no  man  thenceforward  could 
mark  the  place  of  the  prophet's  transient  burial 
amid  the  scenes  of  his  first  and  only  triumphant 
ministry. 

"It  is  a  sad  story,  Jacob  Cochrane's,"  Wait- 
si  ill  said  to  her  husband  when  she  first  discovered 
that  her  children  had  chosen  the  deserted  spot  for 
their  play;  "and  yet,  Ivory,  the  red  rose  blooms 
and  blooms  in  the  ruins  of  the  man's  house,  and 
perhaps,  somewhere  in  the  world,  he  has  left  a 
message  that  matches  the  rose." 


THE    END 


CAMBRIDGK   .   MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


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